#One will set their mind to what the 'truth' is and refuse to see it any other way. That their perspective is the only correct one.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

At your side [End of Season 2]

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[dearru]

the only exception ! | ft. hq boys

-> pairing: miya atsumu, suna rintarou, hinata shoyo x gn!reader | sfw | cw: quick blurbs! | mlist 

-> synopsis: you���re the only one who can get your boyfriend to do certain things. 

₊˚ෆ MIYA ATSUMU dislikes people cheering while he serves. His infamous topspins and floaters are renowned in the volleyball world– for good reason. To stake his control over the court, he refuses any distractions, and he silences the crowd with one flick of his wrist. He’s been known to give death glares to anybody, even his own fans, who disobey his command for quiet. 

So when you, his newly minted significant other, shatter the careful still Atsumu has crafted by bellowing out his name in an otherwise silent stadium, gasps ripple through the stands. 

Atsumu’s teammates freeze, interest piqued at how he’d react. Sure, you’re dating now, but Atsumu’s a very harsh guy. Nobody would put it past him to scold you on the spot. The ball bounces against the court once, twice, and then three times, like a ticking bomb. The crowd shifts uncomfortably, waiting for his anger to explode.

It never comes. 

Instead, he serves the ball as normal. It’s an ace. And when it’s over, he looks at you with a knowing grin of appreciation instead of his usual glare. 

Atsumu hates the shrill sound of cheers when he’s about to serve, but he’s come to find that if it’s yours– he doesn’t quite mind. 

₊˚ෆ SUNA RINTAROU is a generally expressionless guy. It’s gotten him into trouble more times than he can count.

When he sprained his ankle in middle school, he barely winced. When his little sister was born, he yawned. When he landed his first spike as a professional athlete, he hummed.

No matter the scenario, a disinterested look is permanently etched into his features. (The only exception is the upturn of his lips when he sees his friends doing something particularly idiotic.) 

It’s not that he doesn’t care– it’s just how he is. This is a truth that all those close to Rintarou have come to understand. 

This truth is why, when he introduces you to his loved ones for the first time, they’re stunned. They’re shocked when they see the bright red his face burns after you give him a kiss on the cheek. They’re floored by the smile that possesses his lips as he steals glances at you from across the room. They’re surprised by the look of absolute adoration in his eyes whenever you do really anything. 

Rintarou’s always been difficult to read, but for you, he’s feelings are entirely transparent.  

₊˚ෆ HINATA SHOYO always stays late to practice. Being the dedicated player that he is, he will train until his legs shake and his breath gives out. His teammates know never to approach him when he’s in his groove; otherwise, he’ll find a way to coax them into another round of drills. He’s an immovable force, immune to persuasion, and entirely impossible to convince to slow down.

“Leaving early” is not in his vocabulary. 

So when, one day, his teammates see him trek into the locker room before the sun has even set, they worry he’s gone ill. 

But when Shoyo reassures them, with a bright smile, that he’s just leaving early to meet with you, the new person he’s been seeing, for dinner– his teammates think he’s lost his mind. Their expressions of concern morph into ones of complete disbelief. 

What curse have you placed on the rigid player to compel him to act in such an uncharacteristic way? Have you threatened his family? Are you blackmailing him? 

The answer is none of the above. 

Shoyo doesn’t stay late to practice out of obligation. He does it because he adores what he does. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on the court.

But recently, he’s come to discover that there’s one place he loves being just a smidge more. 

With you. 

–a/n: just smth quick i wrote to procrastinate studying! LMAO

shoyo tag: @cherrysurf

[childrenofcain-if]

DEMO ✝ BACK-UP ACCOUNT

Wealth. Power. Death.

The Ballad of the Young Gods is a dark academia interactive fiction story, with dark fantasy and psychological thriller themes. Some of the romances also contain tropes and storylines which may be disturbing to some readers.

It is based on media like “Ninth House” by Leigh Bardugo, “The Secret History” by Donna Tart, “Masters of Death” by Olivie Blake, and SYFY’s “Deadly Class”.

It is rated 18+ for depictions of swearing, sexual themes, violence, and death.

Getting into an Ivy League school is a dream that thousands of American students nurse from a young age. Luckily for you, that dream is your reality. Four years of continuous hard work and pressure have made you a proud freshman at Yale University. And as if that wasn’t enough, you have been handpicked to attend Rathore College, whose selection process is revered across all the nation’s top educational institutions. But you should’ve known this stroke of luck came with a catch.

Yale is a crucible of power, where secret societies wield arcane magic and the dead are far from silent. The illustrious House of Styx wants you and this is a situation that not even your money can get you out of.

They are powerful, elite, and most of all, controlling beyond recognition. They are also the heart of the eight secret societies that attach themselves to Yale. From the White House to Hollywood’s most acclaimed stars, their influence reaches farther than anyone can dare to imagine.

A sinister conspiracy brews under Styx’s watchful gaze, one that threatens to unravel the fragile balance between the living and the dead. But in a graveyard of secrets, you and your accomplices are the ones with the shovels. You’re now in a world where the past is never truly dead, and the lines between life and death blur with each passing day.

But some secrets are better left buried, and some prophecies are destined to drag you to hell.

Cédric Armand Lacroix / Céline Armelle Lacroix (M/F)

Vindictive. Conniving. Ruthless.

As the heir to the Lacroix fortune, C is every bit as arrogant as their bloodline demands them to be. Even after the messy divorce of their parents which further led to their disownment by their father, Alain Lacroix, they refuse to give up on their dignity. They’ve vowed to destroy him one day and take what’s rightful theirs, brick by brick. The world bent to C’s whims, what money couldn't buy them, those pale green eyes probably did.

There is nothing that they can’t have, especially if they set their mind to that. That is until you came along and stayed one step ahead of them every time in everything that mattered. It wasn’t just the fortune or the legacy at stake; it was the bruising of their pride, the constant reminder that someone—anyone—could outmaneuver them. But beneath the layers of resentment and anger, there’s something more—something darker, even more dangerous.

An obsession takes root, one that blurs the line between hatred and fascination. And they vow to spend their whole life despising you for everything.

Romance trope: Enemies / Academic Rivals to Lovers.

Vance Kasper Næsholm / Vanessa Karina Næsholm (M/F)

Pious. Haunted. Disillusioned.

Raised under the oppressive influence of a rigid, fire-and-brimstone faith in a Danish Catholic orphanage, they were taught to see demons in every shadow and sin in every touch. Forever haunted by the visions provided by a wrathful God they can neither fully grasp their mind around nor escape from, their only reprieve came on the day they got adopted at the age of six and diagnosed with schizophrenia. But the truth of their ‘psychosis’ may be far more sinister than any medical diagnosis could account for.

As the tides become even stormier and their medications become ineffective when they arrive at Yale, all V can do is hold on to the last threads of control over their lives. Your first meeting almost makes them teeter over the edge.

Now that they’re your roommate, they’re bound to you by fate or folly, but whether they’ll be a stable ally remains to be seen.

Romance trope: Roommate Romance.

Wilhelm Johann Ostendorf / Wilhelmine Johanna Ostendorf (M/F)

Exhausted. Abandoned. Lost.

What does the world think of you when you’re a product of brilliance and neglect at the same time? With an Oscar-winning filmmaker for a father and a mother ensconced on the American board of directors at the Louvre, their pedigree is undeniable, yet it is a legacy more hollow than it appears. While their parents sculpted their careers into masterpieces and amassed accolades, they left W to be raised by their paternal aunt and uncle. A sizeable trust fund and periodic checks served as their parents’ only gestures of care, a shallow substitute for the love and attention their only child so desperately craved.

The only times they had felt more than someone who was deeply unlovable were the summers you spent on rusty swingsets and fast bicycles with training wheels. But the swingsets have long been dismantled, and the bicycles have been traded for cars.

The only questions remain—are you the same kid who saw them, really saw them, beyond the reality of being unwanted and the suffocating looks filled with pity that came with their name? Or will this reunion only serve to confirm their deepest fear—that they are, and always have been, truly alone?

Romance trope: Forgotten Childhood Friends to Lovers.

Dumitru Constantin Diaconu / Dumitra Constantina Diaconu (M/F)

Charismatic. Reckless. Guarded.

D’s name is the one that comes up in almost every conversation about Yale’s wildest parties. A natural-born rockstar charmer with a magnetic presence, they effortlessly draw people into their orbit, collecting hearts and bodies with the ease of someone who’s always been in the center of the gold rush. Despite the countless admirers and the trail of broken hearts left in their wake, you’ll always find them with a Marlboro between their lips and a new person in their arms to warm their bed at night. Their smile is a promise, and their laughter a siren call. In the haze of flashing lights and the thrum of bass that pulses through the walls, they are a heartbreaker in every sense of the word.

Feelings are a complication they don’t allow, a line they never cross. They’ve perfected the art of detachment, of keeping their connections strictly no-strings, because to let someone in would be to risk the vulnerability they’ve long since sworn off.

Will you be the only person they'd let peel back the barbed wire surrounding their heart? Or will you be left with nothing but the faint scent of cinnamon and a tale that wasn't meant to be?

Romance trope: Friends with Benefits / Sex First, Feelings Later. [You will only be able to unlock their romance route through a hookup.]

Maxwell Edmund Whitlock-Singh / Maxine Edythe Whitlock-Singh (M/F)

Duty-bound. Noble. Untouchable.

Politeness and decorum are second nature to M. They are the embodiment of manners, a living testament to the art of subtlety in a world where spectacle often trumps substance. They are the sort of person who commands attention without seeking it, a product of both royal blood and rigorous self-discipline. Dubbed the “Paragon of Styx,” M is a modern Plato, someone who finds as much solace in philosophical debates as in the classical texts they’ve devoured in multiple languages. As the second-born child of the Crown Princess of Wales, they have always understood that their life would be one of service with every action scrutinized, and every word weighed.

Their intellect is vast, but it is their passion for the esoteric that sets them apart. For all their convictions, there is a restlessness within M that even they cannot fully articulate. It is the paradox of their existence—a life of privilege that feels at times like a gilded cage, a role that demands both reverence and obedience. Indeed, heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Will you make them realize that life is more than duties and expectations? Or will you become yet another figure in the background, another reminder of the golden cage they were born into?

Romance trope: Forbidden Royal Romance / Secret Relationship.

Step into the shadows as the wealthy heir apparent to a billion-dollar industry who is just starting at Yale University as a freshman.

Be a part of Yale’s most enigmatic secret society, the House of Styx.

Fully customize your character including: pronouns, gender, physical appearance, personality, sexuality, and more.

Romance 1 out of 5 love interests (all of them are gender-selectable).

Study forbidden knowledge, practice dark magic, and try not to fail at your actual coursework.

Test your mind, body, and soul in rituals that blur the line between reality and nightmare.

Learn about the secrets that your mother took to her grave. Is she really the same woman you remember so fondly from your childhood?

Will you rise to navigate the sinister plans brewing under the nose of the House? Or will your actions drag you and your companions to the fiery depths of Hell.

W̶̗͖̝͆h̷͕̲̑̎̓̍̄̎͠͝a̵̢̛̫̾̓͗t̴̙̫͛̐͆̾̀̓̔̊͝ ̴̪́́̈́͛̂̉̀͒̊́ạ̸̗̯̲̘̬͗̀ͅr̸̢̪̜̭̼̠̟̜͚̂̈́͋͋̅͑̉́̎͝e̸̩̯͉̿̊̔͛̃̎͝ͅ ̵̢̹̜̤͍͙̩̬̰̜̏̃͝͠y̷̢̨͇̘͍̌́͐̍̆̓̑̐ǫ̶̢̧̡̛̥̤͉͎̟̃̏̍̓̒ͅu̷̓̂̾̇̇͜͝,̸͎̖̮̲̳̻̱̬̎̒͑͝ ̸̡̛̰̌͐c̶̛̪̗̰̻̜̲̘̺͗͊h̴̡͔̦̘̤̖͊̿̓̇i̵͉̘͙̥͍̼̜̐̐̄̅͝͝ĺ̶̡̧̧̼̦̦̗̰̝̼̓̊̀d̸̡͎͔͔̰̖̿̐̈́̓͊̌̃̓͜?̷̩̗̲̫̮͕̍̈́́̽͜͝͝

DEMO

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SPOTIFY (for RO playlists, click on their names in the cast section)

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WRITTEN BY: axel (he/him)

CODED BY: @albywritesfiction (they/them)

[anantaru]

・✶ ｡ synopsis — fucking your enemy doesn't really sound like a good plan or wait, maybe it does! <3

warnings — enemies to lovers, fingering, playful childe, fem! reader

childe always approaches you with that damn smirk on his face, his gaze intense and unwavering, a sprinkle of confidence playing on his lips.

the harbinger had always been your enemy, the embodiment of danger and excitement, and despite the many battles the both of you had fought, you couldn't lie to yourself but admit that there was an undeniable pull between you— a connection you refused to acknowledge, even to yourself at times.

"ah, you fought well today," childe's was barely out of breath as he throws his hands up in the air to feign defeat, his voice low and husky, a dangerous edge to his tone, "but you're not as strong as you think you are, heh."

without batting your lashes, you glare back at him with your body tense of anger, every single nerve inside on edge, "—and you're still as arrogant as ever, childe."

fuck, how much he adored it whenever you showed him a little of your sweet temper, it's a little salty too but he doesn't mind that— in fact, it gets him going and arouses something deep below.

naturally his smirk widens the moment you say it, his eyes darkening with something far more primal that he'd originally let on, "me? arrogant? oh am i? or am i just confident?"

you roll your eyes and before you could even find a good enough response, he instantly closes the distance between you in a swift stride— without haste, folding your spirit in half with his presence becoming overwhelming.

in an attempt to turn around and leave his hand grabs towards your arm, gripping your wrist with a surprising gentleness that was never experienced before by you, yet with the strength you've known far too well, one that left no room for escape.

"you think you can hide it from me? i can see it in your eyes, you know," he murmurs underneath his heightened breathing, slanting towards your face closer and closer until you could feel his warm breath against your ear, "the way you look at me, you see? the way your body reacts when I'm near like that— ugh, you're so shy, but I know you've been dreaming about this, as have i, or haven’t you?"

your heart races at the absurdity in his sentence— or was there even a sprinkle of a lie inside of it? how long until you cannot run from the feelings you harbored for him anymore? or was it simply lust that kept the drive inside of yourself working.

a mixture of fear yet also excitement floods your senses— you really wanted to deny it, to push him away, but the truth was, his words struck a deep chord within you, you're doomed and yes, in fact, you had dreams about him— of feeling him inside you, feeling his cock twitch and thicken while he's grinding himself in you, fucking your tight cunt as the fantasies of surrendering to the raw, forbidden desire consumed you.

you knew he must be good in bed, amazing even, there was no chance in hell that he wasn't with that striking personality of his.

"cut the crap childe, i don't know what you're talking about," you stammer back, but my dear, don't you hear? your voice betrayed you just this second, right in front of his eyes as you began to tremble with the weight of your secret longing dying to be set free.

"oh? but i think you do," he whispers before saying your name so sensually that it felt like someone's set your body on fire.

the man continues as his lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck;

"you've wanted this for so long, right? this—"

and before you could muster a response, his mouth claims yours in a searing kiss that made your brain rewire, the touch of his lips strong and ruthless as one hand slid up to cup the back of your head, holding you firmly in place.

you weren't surprised by how childe kissed you, in fact, you imagined how it felt like— granted, it was better than you originally fantasized.

the kiss was rough, as if he was looking for an answer, and it shattered the last bit of your very resistance as you kissed him back with equal fervor, your body igniting with a fire you had tried so hard to suppress— yet, was it actually bad that you went against your own beliefs? just this once?

of course, you both were on different sides, supporting different agendas but this— fuck, this, it felt so good, why was the darkness childe expelled so mesmerizing? like biting into a poised apple and still relishing in getting tainted?

the harbingers hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming, as if he had every right to do this and his touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine before he pushed you against the cold stone wall, the contrast between the cool surface and his heated skin only heightening your needful senses.

although before going further, he abruptly stopped the kiss, at last lapping across your bottom lip and seeking your gaze, "tell me you want this, i need this," he growls against your lips, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising energy, "tell me you've dreamed of this moment too."

you close your eyes and take a deep breath, a shaky whimper escaping your lips as you felt the grip on you tighten. each one of his touch, his breath hitting your skin and his words played into your beating heart and you couldn't, you just weren't able to stop your body from liking this.

your back arches a little as to show him without words, without needing to admit it— right now, you weren't sure if you could ever say it out loud.

like snowfall, his touch was cold, but it felt oddly comforting.

but you let him move forward as one hand slips beneath your clothes, finding your wetness between your thighs, your folds messed up and puffy for him. "childe i— i... i want this too," you admit against your own volition, the words tumbling out before you could even stop them, "i’ve dreamed of you, childe, maybe..."

you got him now— or, does he have you wrapped around his finger instead? regardless, his eyes blaze with a glistening triumph hanging over his irises as he captures your lips again.

he begins slowly, his fingers working around your hole with expert precision, circling your entrance and collecting your slick with such precision which you originally only knew of his ways of fighting as he coaxes out every inch of your pleasure.

you're writhing and hiding your moans into his chest, the volume of your whimpers growing when he pokes one finger in.

with a growl, he rips your shirt aside to expose your breasts, the fabric tearing in his haste— and before you knew it, his own jacket followed as you helped discard them quickly.

"look at me," he commands, "feel how i touch you there," as his voice resembles a rough whisper.,"i want to see the look in your eyes when i touch and touch you,"

you obeyed, meeting his gaze, your breath hitching as he thrusts one finger into you with a single, powerful flick forward.

the sensation was immediately overwhelming, not due to the fact that he was beginning to stimulate your hole with fast thrusts of his digit fucking in and out of you but the sole thought of childe doing it was the final nail in the coffin.

your heart was beginning to hurt from riding his fingers, furiously rattling against your ribcage as you threw out the last amount of dignity you had inside your body, becoming one with the movements of his hand before starting to seek it.

his wet tongue drags from your neck towards your collar bones before reaching your nipples, immediately taking one in his mouth as the heel of his hand began to press into your clit painfully hard, the feeling only multiplying when you shoved yourself into it more, better and deeper, until your body flashes you with a heat you cannot escape.

one more finger, more, and each pump turned rougher and moredemanding with the pace of his hand being relentless, cruel as you almost climaxed by just looking at him— how his wet lips left a trail of saliva on your slicked chest and ugh, that delirious glimmer in his eyes. 

childe truly likes the feeling of you clenching around his knuckles, he might become addicted to it, and he believes he'd actually die a happy man if he'd be able to feel you squeeze around his thick cock like that.

but you have to do it just like that, with your pussy drooling over his desperately and touch depraved, so he could taste you right after, yeah? have you all around his tongue.

he's not sure if he can even fit inside, ah, how excited he gets when he imagines your eyes glow and turn all big and pretty when he lets you see him from below his clothes— he knows for a fact he will make it fit.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[kisakis-boyfriend]

OH SHIT UH baizhu x monster reader because I've been thinking about him lately. maybe something dubcon-y? I love pathetic men whimpering and crying 🎃

Author's Note: My mind went places, y'all… very horny places. 💀

Pairings: Baizhu x male reader

Warnings: Male plant monster!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!Baizhu, sort of gullible Baizhu, dubcon, handjob, facial, riding, aphrodisiac, mild dumbification

Why he had to run out of this particular herb was beyond him. As if that wasn't annoying enough, his suppliers were out of stock and wouldn't be able to ship him any more. The location of this herb has become increasingly dangerous, and no one could figure out why the men sent to gather these herbs came back… weird, to say the least. Nonetheless, Baizhu needed those herbs to treat his patients.

Was it a stupid idea to travel out there by himself and gather them by hand; yes, most certainly, and Changsheng told him as much, but a doctor's mind is a puzzling thing.

And that's how he ended up here; in the high mountains of Chenyu Vale. Normally, one would expect to run into a few monsters, at the very least, but Baizhu had yet to see a single one during his trek. There were plenty of other creatures, and the foliage didn't seem withered, so it's not as if this place was devoid of life nor on a biological decline—there was simply a lack of danger. Which is a strange occurrence, considering the reports he'd read…

That fact really should be comforting to the frail doctor, but in truth, it made a shiver run down his spine. His eyes nervously scanned over the immediate grassy grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the herb he so desperately needed — desperate enough to set foot on this mountain alone.

It took a bit more searching, but the herb in question was flourishing just around the back of one particular mountain. Baizhu carefully made his way towards the area, picking one herb and inspecting it to check its quality and that it was, in fact, the correct herb. Picking a few more, Baizhu comes across one plant that refuses to be plucked — an unusually tough herb, resisting his attempts to yank it out from the dirt.

As he goes to inspect the stem, a soft voice cries out; “U-um… excuse me? Could you help me…?” Looking over his shoulder, the doctor spots a person's head sticking up out of the ground—except their skin has a pale green hue to it, and as this person rises up, he notices how the ground around them shifts; as though the ground is a part of them.

Baizhu turns halfway, cautiously keeping an eye on you as he questions, “…What do you need help with?” The way your body flows effortlessly when you move—creating ripples in the immediate area around your torso—piques Baizhu's curiosity.

“O-oh! Um… it's a little embarrassing, if I'm being honest, sir…” you begin, “As you've probably guessed, I am not a human — think of me as a type of dendro spirit, I guess? Uh, anyways, there's this…ritual, of sorts, that only a human can help me with–”

The whole time you're explaining this predicament of yours, Baizhu keeps a watchful eye on you to make sure you're not tricking him. Even though you come across as rather sheepish.

“…I understand if you don't trust me, I just don't know what else to do…humans don't come around here too often, and the pain has become so much worse–”

“I'll help you.” He interjects. The sparkles in your eyes force him to hold back a chuckle as you thank him a million times over. “Please take me to this plant of yours.”

You excitedly take off, essentially a torso and head gliding halfway inside the ground, while this kind human with green hair trails just behind. Arriving at your destination, Baizhu kneels down, giving you a glance, and you return it nervously.

Baizhu eyes the plant inquisitively, staring at the odd shape and strange fleshy texture of the whole thing.

“Go on, doctor, I-I'm ready…” you prompt, giving the man a shy smile to mask your nerves.

With a quick breath to strengthen his resolve, the doctor raises his hands, wrapping them both around the plant and lightly squeezing it until a wet substance seeps out through the petals. “A-ah! aAh-” you gasp suddenly.

“I'm sorry—did that hurt?!”

You shake your head, nearly whimpering as you try to assure him, “N-no… just surprised me. Your hands… they're a bit cold…”

“My apologies, they should warm up soon enough. Shall we keep going?” Said like a true doctor. This stranger with kind eyes has been nothing but gentle with you so far, helping out a non-human creature whom he only met a few minutes ago, even if he finds your request a tad strange.

More wetness falls down his hands, pouring from the plant the more he squeezes and twists his hands around the elongated object. He experimentally moves his hands to other areas, and when Baizhu's thumbs rub and press on the tip of the plant, you're unable to hold back a sharp intake of air. Your eyes roll back momentarily, and you chomp down on your lower lip to conceal the noises threatening to escape.

The doctor eyes your pained expressions with worry written all over his face. “It's… fine — I'm fine. The pain… is not that bad… please, don't stop, doctor.”

As you wish, Baizhu milks more and more liquid from the plant, creating a pool of it underneath the stem of the plant—gradually creeping towards his knees and threatening to soak his pants. For the most part, it feels and looks like regular water, but there's a faint sensation of stickiness on his palms, close to the surface of the plant.

While this is supposed to be a medical procedure, Baizhu can't help feeling a bit… embarrassed by the whole situation. This plant of yours—it is a bit phallic. Not to mention how the method used to wring out the liquid is akin to… uh, a specific hand movement performed on phallic objects. The suggestive sounds coming from your mouth don't help that either. Baizhu can't ignore you when you moan out “Faster… faster, doctor- aah~ Keep stroking it like that… it's definitely woRKING-!”

The more Baizhu watches himself squeeze the glistening liquid from your plant, the deeper into a trance he falls — soon enough he's fallen so deep that he shamelessly jerks off the phallic plant until the tip opens up and explodes like a volcano; shooting thick, honey-like ropes all over Baizhu's pretty face.

The substance drips all down his features — clumping in strands of hair, clinging to his glasses, dripping from his nose and chin, and even a little sliding into his open mouth. “A-ah! Y-you… you did it… you made me release it all, doctor~” you comment — your words are the only thing penetrating that fuzzy mind of his right now. “Thank you soooo much~ But, could I trouble you with one more thing?” you lean forward, gently holding the doctor's chin so that he can't turn away from you. “Won't you help me again? It's the only way for me to feel all better.”

“Aah…? I don't… understand…” Baizhu breathes, confused and seemingly in a daze. It's such a precious sight to behold, really.

You reach out and slide a hand up and down the doctor's stomach, teasingly pushing his top up a few times before moving towards the edge of his pants. “You'll help me, won't you? You're such a kind doctor, after all~” you remind him. Baizhu's pants are quickly yanked down, removed the rest of the way by vines that the good doctor never noticed before…

With his sensitive areas laid bare for you to see, Baizhu gasps, frozen in place as your hands feel up his waist and thighs, pushing the latter apart so that you can inspect his body. Sliding two fingers towards his rear, you find that special hole humans have and tease around the rim of it. “Aha! There it is. I'm sorry to ask so much of you, but… I really need this right now.”

While he has no idea what you mean, the doctor senses something amiss within your words. Your fingers attempt to push inside of him, and Baizhu clumsily refuses. “I-I don't think… don't think that I can do that, young man… mm ooh~”

Impatiently, you lift him up and pull him towards you, hovering his hole right above the plant he'd previously milked. A little burst of liquid shoots from the tip, splashing against Baizhu's entrance, which startles him. The consistency of the liquid feels just like the substance it coated his face in earlier; thick, sticky, and warm.

While Baizhu's mind tries to resist, his body is doing quite the opposite, already lowering itself down until the tip of the plant is entering his ass. “A-AAH! Wait–!” he begs. But it's too little too late as your phallic plant penetrates him with ease, thanks to that honey-like fluid. The fleshy appendage pushes a wave of liquid inside his hole, and it creates a wet mess all over his ass, thighs, and the ground below as you begin to fuck him.

“Mm doctor… you feel incredible~ Hehe, look at that—this little guy is having fun too~” Baizhu blushes deeply, shaking his head while you watch his cock bounce every time your plant cock thrusts in.

“N-no… please, harder–! This is weird… aah~ so good~ ” the doctor grits his teeth, biting his lower lip as he grows frustrated by his own mouth betraying him. The cutest whimpers are the only sounds coming from his mouth as you continue your assault on his hole, thrusting your plant deeper and deeper. The amount of liquid gushing out of Baizhu's ass is ungodly now; sticky, squelchy, slick fluids that overflow with every thrust, filling his tummy until it hurts with how full it is.

“You're doing amazing, doctor! That terrible ache is almost gone, I j-just need to– guh!” you suddenly slam your hips into him, laughing as a pang of pleasure wracks your body and causes you to bury your cock in him. Your hands fly to his waist, and you bounce the human while he whimpers some more.

Tears begin to roll down Baizhu's cheeks, staining his glasses with a salty film as you release another round of that thick substance; this time inside the doctor's body. You pant wildly, mere inches from his face while your plant cock spreads open inside of his hole, releasing far too much liquid inside his belly.

[d-targaryenshoe]

To Protect And Adore - Aegon II Targaryen

Word Count: 1219

Summary: Queen nor a Princess shall threaten an unborn child, should they? Most surely not if it's the king's child.

The dragonfire flickered and danced in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls of the Red Keep.

You sat in the dim light, your hands protectively cradling your swollen belly.

The child within you was a secret you had kept for as long as possible, but the inevitable truth could no longer be hidden.

You were with Aegon's child, a fact that could change many lives.

Aegon Targaryen, the king, had taken you as his mistress at the time when his marriage to Helaena had been strained and loveless.

You were no noblewoman, but your beauty and grace had caught the eye of the dragon king.

What began as a passionate affair soon deepened into something more, and now, you carried the heir to the throne within you.

But with Helaena's tragic death, the court was rife with intrigue and whispers.

Power was up for grabs, and the position of queen was vacant.

As you sat in the quiet of your chambers, a knock at the door disrupted your thoughts.

Before you could respond, the door swung open and Alicent Hightower swept into the room.

Her face was a mask of cold fury.

"Y/n," she began, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "You should not have allowed this to happen."

You rose to your feet, your heart pounding in your chest. "Your Grace," you said, bowing your head slightly. "I did not intend for any of this."

Alicent's eyes narrowed. "Yet here we are. You are carrying my son's child, a bastard that will only bring disgrace and scandal to this house."

You felt a surge of protectiveness for your unborn child. "He is Aegon's son, and nothing will change that."

Alicent stepped closer, her expression growing darker. "You are a fool if you think I will permit this child to live. There are ways to deal with such inconveniences."

Fear gripped you, but you stood your ground. "You would not dare harm your grandchild."

Alicent's smile was chilling. "You underestimate me. If you value your life and that of your child, you will leave and never return."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to show weakness. "Aegon will protect us. He loves me, and he will not stand for this."

Alicent laughed, a cold, bitter sound.

"Aegon is weak. He is ruled by his desires, not his mind. But you are correct about one thing, he will protect you, at least for now. But even he cannot disobey me forever."

With that, Alicent turned and swept out of the room, leaving you trembling and alone.

You knew you had to tell Aegon, but fear for his reaction and what it might cost him stayed in your hand for a moment.

You could not put it off any longer.

The next morning, you went to his chambers.

Aegon was lounging on his bed, a goblet of wine in his hand.

His violet eyes lit up when he saw you, but his smile faded when he saw your expression.

"What is it?" he asked, setting the goblet aside and rising to his feet.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"Aegon, I need to tell you something. Your mother... she threatened me and our child. She told me to leave or she would... she would see to it that our child did not survive."

Aegon's face darkened with fury. "She said that? To you?"

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I am frightened, Aegon. I do not know what to do."

Aegon's hands clenched into fists, and he turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal.

"She has gone too far this time," he muttered. "I will not let her harm you or our child."

He strode towards the door, and you hurried after him. "Aegon, please, do not do anything rash. She is your mother."

He turned to you, his eyes blazing. "She may be my mother, but she has overstepped her limits. No one threatens my family. No one."

With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving you to follow in his wake.

You found Alicent in the throne room, deep in conversation with one of her advisors.

She looked up, startled, as Aegon burst in.

"Aegon, what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, rising to her feet.

Aegon strode up to her, his face a mask of fury. "You threatened y/n and our child," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You think you can control me, manipulate me, but you are mistaken. I will not let you hurt them."

Alicent's eyes flashed with anger. "I am your mother, and I know what is best for this kingdom. That child is a threat to everything we have created."

Aegon took a step closer, pressing a finger to his mother's chest. "You do not get to decide who lives and who dies. I am the king, and I will protect those I love. If you ever threaten y/n or our child again, I will see to it that you are punished for this."

Alicent's face paled. "You would not dare."

Aegon grabbed her arm, his grip firm. "Try me."

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then Alicent wrenched her arm free and took a step back, her expression one of fury and disbelief.

"You will regret this, Aegon," she spat. "You are making a mistake."

Aegon shook his head. "The only mistake I made was not standing up to you sooner. Y/n is carrying my child, and I will marry her. She will be queen, and our child will be the heir to the throne."

Alicent's eyes widened with shock. "You cannot be serious. The nobles will never accept her."

Aegon turned to you, who had been standing silently by his side.

He took your hand and looked into your eyes. "I am very serious. I love her, and I will do whatever it takes to protect her and our child."

Your heart swelled with love and gratitude.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, you knew you would face whatever came together.

Aegon was willing to fight his mother, and risk everything, for your love and your child.

Alicent stood there, her face a mask of fury and disbelief. "You are a fool, Aegon. This will be your undoing."

Aegon turned back to her, his expression hard. "If protecting my family is my undoing, then so be it. I will not be a puppet for you to bear. This is my decision, and it is final."

With that, he led you out of the throne room, leaving Alicent to fume in silence.

As you walked down the corridors of the Red Keep, Aegon squeezed your hand.

"Do not worry," he said softly. "I will keep you safe. No one will harm you or our child."

You nodded, tears of relief streaming down your face. "I know. I trust you."

Together, you faced the uncertain future, your love and determination stronger than ever.

Despite the challenges and dangers ahead, you knew you could overcome anything as long as you were together.

Aegon's promise to protect his family was a vow that would never be broken, and your love would become the foundation of a new era for the Targaryen dynasty.

[fangdokja]

Some truths are better left buried.

❤︎ Synopsis. A charming façade hides a mind unraveling, as jealousy sinks its claws into a man obsessed with the untouchable "Ice Queen," her mysterious past igniting a sinister need to claim what was never his to own.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Ex-Boyfriend x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Friction & Fire - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 7,753

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, general non-con + manipulation, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances

The office was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of your keyboard and the faint hum of the air conditioning. The morning sun bled through the blinds in fractured slivers, painting your desk in a dull, sterile glow. You sat across from him, your shoulders squared, your focus unyielding as you combed through line after line of data.

And yet, despite the quiet, he could feel the tension lingering between you like a living thing.

It was still on his mind.

He wasn’t the type to fixate—hell, he prided himself on letting things roll off his back—but this? The thought of your first kiss, of the strange, detached way you spoke about it last night, had lodged itself in his brain like a splinter.

He leaned back in his chair, one leg lazily draped over the other as he watched you with sharp, predatory focus. On the surface, he looked relaxed, his usual cocky nonchalance on full display. But beneath it, his mind was a storm.

“You know,” he began, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife, “last night got me thinking.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Your fingers danced across the keys, swift and precise, as though you hadn’t heard him at all.

He smiled, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on the table. “For someone who’s so good at everything, you sure don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

Still, you gave him nothing. Not a word. Not a glance.

He didn’t let it deter him. If anything, your silence only spurred him on.

“So, first kiss,” he said, his tone as light as a feather, casual enough to sound innocent. “When was it? And don’t give me that ‘transaction’ excuse. I want details.”

Your fingers paused for half a second—so brief it was barely noticeable—but it was enough to make his grin widen.

“I’m working,” you said flatly, your voice like steel.

“And I’m curious,” he shot back smoothly, his grin taking on a sharper edge. “Come on, indulge me a little. Was it some rich heir your parents set you up with? Or…” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Was it someone you actually liked?”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on your screen. “Drop it.”

“Oh, I would,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more insidious tone. “But it’s kind of hard to stop wondering when you’re so damn mysterious about everything. I mean, it’s not like I’m asking for state secrets here. Just a name. Or a story. Something.”

Your fingers hit the keys a little harder now, your movements growing sharper, but you still refused to look at him.

He leaned back again, tapping his pen idly against the table, his expression deceptively calm. “Okay, fine. Let’s broaden the topic. Ever had any other boyfriends? Or am I the only one lucky enough to deal with your charming personality?”

The sarcasm in his tone was sharp, but it wasn’t enough to mask the strange, simmering edge beneath it.

“Work,” you said simply, not bothering to look at him.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” He leaned forward again, his voice growing louder, though his grin remained firmly in place. “You’re like a damn iron wall. It’s impressive, really. But also kind of annoying.”

You finally paused, your hands hovering above the keyboard as you turned to meet his gaze. Your expression was calm, cold, and utterly unreadable. “If I don’t answer,” you said, your voice low and measured, “will you stop asking?”

“Not a chance,” he said, his grin widening into something wolfish.

You sighed, turning back to your screen. “Then keep asking. It won’t change anything.”

He let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something else there now, something darker and more insistent, coiling tightly in his chest.

He didn’t know why this mattered so much. Why the thought of someone else—someone before him—made his jaw clench and his stomach churn. But the idea wouldn’t let him go.

“Fair enough,” he said finally, his voice dropping into a softer, almost dangerous tone. “But don’t think I’m letting this go. Sooner or later, princess, I’ll get you to crack.”

Your silence was answer enough. But the faint flicker of annoyance in your eyes as you typed? That was all the encouragement he needed.

———

The late afternoon sun filtered through the office windows, casting long, golden streaks across the sterile desks. Papers and coffee cups littered the space, evidence of a day stretched too long. You sat at your desk, immersed in another report, your brow furrowed in concentration. The tension that had gripped you for days had finally loosened, and though your posture remained rigid, there was an air of calm about you now.

It was a calm he intended to disrupt.

He stretched lazily from his chair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips as he sauntered over to your side. His steps were slow, deliberate, the kind of gait that was both casual and predatory. Leaning down just slightly, he peered over your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

"Still working, huh? You're really setting a new standard for the term 'workaholic.' Should I be worried you're cheating on me with a spreadsheet?" His voice was light, teasing, but there was a flicker of something sharper beneath it.

You didn’t even glance his way. "Your jokes are terrible."

"Terrible? Wow, you wound me," he said, clutching at his chest as if your words had pierced his heart. But his grin didn’t waver. Instead, he slid closer, resting a hand casually on the back of your chair. "Seriously, though. You’re in a much better mood now. My charm’s working, isn’t it?"

"Or maybe I’m just ignoring you," you replied dryly, typing without pause.

He chuckled, his laughter rich and low. "Ignoring me? Oh, sweetheart, if you were ignoring me, you wouldn’t have responded at all."

You sighed, still refusing to meet his gaze. He watched you intently, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the subtle movements of your lips as you murmured something under your breath. For a moment, he was silent, caught in the strange, unfamiliar pull of wanting to touch you—not for show, not as part of this ridiculous transactional arrangement, but because he wanted to feel the solidity of you beneath his hands.

So, he acted.

Before you could react, his arms were around you, pulling you into a firm, almost possessive embrace. He buried his face against your hair, his lips brushing against your temple in a gesture that was disarmingly tender.

You stiffened but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

"Not in public," you said flatly, your tone devoid of emotion.

He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "We’re in an office. No one’s here but us. Doesn’t count."

You sighed, finally turning your head just enough to give him a withering look. "Still. Stop."

"Stop what?" he teased, his grin widening. He tilted his head, pressing his lips to your cheek in a playful kiss, lingering just enough to make your expression harden. "I’m just fulfilling my boyfriend duties. What, you don’t want me to be affectionate?"

"This isn’t affection. It’s a distraction," you retorted, your voice sharp but your body strangely still in his hold.

"Oh, so you do know what affection is. I was beginning to think you were allergic to it," he quipped, his arms tightening slightly as if daring you to push him away.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

His gaze drifted down to your lips again, unbidden memories of last night creeping into his mind. The way you’d slapped him, the way you’d rubbed at your mouth as if scrubbing him off—it had stung. More than he wanted to admit. And then you’d dropped that bomb about it not being your first kiss. That knowledge sat heavy in his chest now, simmering with something dark and ugly.

Jealousy.

He hated the word, hated the feeling even more. But there it was, coiled tight around his thoughts, tainting everything.

"Hey," he said suddenly, his voice softer, almost coaxing. "You never did tell me about your first kiss."

"Drop it," you said firmly, shifting in his hold.

"Come on," he pressed, his tone still light but his grip on you unyielding. "It’s not like I’m going to judge. I’m just… curious."

"I said drop it." This time, your voice had an edge to it, and you finally moved to shrug him off.

But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression carefully masked with that infuriating grin. "Alright, alright. I’ll drop it. For now."

You narrowed your eyes at him but said nothing, turning back to your work.

Still, his hands lingered, his fingers brushing over your arm in a way that felt deliberate. He smiled to himself, his mind churning with thoughts he didn’t want to dissect too closely.

Transactional or not, he was still your boyfriend. Your first boyfriend. The only one you had now.

And that? That was enough. For now.

────────────

The garage hummed with a low din: the scrape of pool cues against felt, the occasional clink of beer bottles, and the raucous laughter of his friends echoing off the cement walls. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and cheap cologne, a heady cocktail that somehow felt like home. He leaned against the pool table, a cue stick balanced lazily in one hand as his gaze drifted—unfocused, distant, and entirely unlike him.

“You good, man?” One of the guys leaned in, squinting at him. “You’ve been off all night. Usually, you’re the one running your mouth the loudest. What gives?”

He blinked, snapping out of his trance, and a lazy grin slid across his face. “What? I’m just letting you losers have your moment. Can’t have me wiping the floor with you every game.”

The group laughed, though the scrutiny didn’t ease. Someone else chimed in, gesturing toward him with a beer bottle. “Nah, nah, there’s something going on. You’ve been staring off into space like you’re in some indie movie montage. What’s eating you?”

He rolled his eyes, straightening up and spinning the cue stick in his hand. “Nothing’s eating me. You guys are just too boring to hold my attention.”

The teasing jabs came quick after that, each more ridiculous than the last. “Oh, I know what it is,” one of the guys said, smirking. “It’s that ice queen of his. What’s her name again? Miss ‘I’m too good for this world’?”

A chorus of laughter erupted, and he smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mean my girlfriend?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you wish you could land someone like her. Don’t be jealous just ’cause I’ve got taste.”

“Girlfriend, huh?” Another guy leaned in, grinning. “Man, you’ve never been serious about anyone in your life. What’s the deal? She finally melt that big ‘I don’t care about anything’ heart of yours?”

He snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. “As if. It’s a transactional thing, remember? Don’t go reading any Nicholas Sparks nonsense into it.” He paused, spinning the cue stick once more before adding, almost offhandedly, “Though she did mention something interesting.”

That got their attention. “Oh?” one of them said, his tone dripping with curiosity. “What’s that?”

“She’s got a past,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Romantic history or whatever.”

There was a beat of stunned silence before the room erupted into laughter again.

“Her? No way!” one of them wheezed, slapping his knee. “You’re telling me the Ice Queen actually let someone get close to her? Hell, I thought she’d freeze anyone who tried.”

“Right? She barely tolerates him,” another joked, pointing at him with a pool cue. “And he’s the boyfriend! Can you imagine anyone else even standing a chance?”

He shrugged, the grin on his face sharp and self-assured, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “Hey, I’m just as shocked as you guys. But yeah, apparently she’s kissed someone before. Wild, right?”

“Pfft, no way,” someone scoffed. “She’s probably messing with you. Bet she said it just to get under your skin.”

“Yeah, no offense, but she doesn’t exactly scream ‘romantic whirlwind.’ What, did she date a robot?”

The laughter rolled on, but he didn’t join in. Instead, he leaned back against the pool table, his grip tightening on the cue stick. He kept his expression light, easygoing, but inside, something coiled tighter and tighter, a venomous knot of jealousy and something he couldn’t quite name.

“Maybe she did,” he said finally, his voice smooth but edged with something razor-thin. “Or maybe she just has good taste and doesn’t fall for losers like you.”

The guys hooted and hollered, taking his words as another well-timed joke, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, his mind lingered on the thought of her—her cool, distant demeanor, the way she brushed him off like he was nothing. And yet… someone else had touched her first.

The idea churned in his gut, hot and nauseating.

Transactional or not, she was his now. Wasn’t she?

———

The laughter around him ebbed and flowed, but it barely registered. He leaned against the edge of the pool table, staring blankly at the neon beer sign on the wall. The buzz of their voices blurred into a distant hum, and his mind gnawed at the frayed edges of the conversation like a dog with a bone.

“Yo, you’re spacing out again,” one of the guys said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “What’s the deal, man? You look like someone ran over your dog.”

He smirked, forcing himself back into the moment. “Please, like I’d ever let that happen. You guys know me—cool as a cucumber.”

“Cucumber, my ass,” someone quipped. “You’ve been weird ever since you brought up her romantic history. What’s the matter, hotshot? Jealous someone else got to her first?”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jealous? Him? Of course not. He was the picture of casual detachment, the poster boy for not giving a damn. It wasn’t like they were in love. The relationship was an agreement, a mutually beneficial arrangement. It wasn’t supposed to be messy. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did.

“Jealous? Me?” He barked out a laugh, the sound a little too sharp. “C’mon, you think I care about some guy who’s probably ancient history? If anything, I’m curious. What kind of guy would even catch her eye? She’s not exactly handing out free passes.”

“Curious, huh?” One of the guys grinned, leaning against his pool cue. “Sure, let’s call it that. I mean, it’s not like you’ve ever been the possessive type.”

The comment was met with a wave of snickers, and he rolled his eyes, his grin widening. “Exactly. I’m chill. Relaxed. Totally unbothered.” He emphasized the last word, slapping the pool table for effect, but the laughter around him only grew louder.

“Yeah, sure you are,” another guy chimed in, taking a swig from his beer. “That’s why you’ve been stewing over this for, what, ten minutes now?”

He forced another laugh, but inside, the knot in his chest tightened. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t like him. He’d had plenty of relationships—flings, hookups, even a couple that could loosely be called serious—and he’d never felt like this. Never felt this gnawing, restless ache that made him want to punch a wall and pull her closer at the same time.

It wasn’t even logical. So what if she’d had someone before him? It wasn’t like he owned her. She was her own person, icy and untouchable as she was. And yet…

And yet.

The image of her brushing off his kiss the night before crept into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. The way she’d wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the way her voice had been sharp, cutting, when she’d told him it wasn’t her first kiss.

The thought burned.

He clenched his jaw, spinning his pool cue in his hands like a restless fidget. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He wasn’t the jealous type. He wasn’t the possessive type. He was laid-back, easygoing, always ready with a joke or a grin. That was who he was. That was what made him so good at this kind of thing.

So why did the thought of her with someone else make him feel like he was coming apart at the seams?

“Alright, spill it,” one of the guys said, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. “Who was it, huh? Some prince charming? Some straight-laced business major who knows how to schmooze parents?”

He scoffed, the sound automatic. “Please. Like I’d even know. She didn’t exactly give me a play-by-play.”

“Bet it was some boring, pencil-pushing nerd,” another guy chimed in. “She seems like the type to go for someone... predictable.”

Predictable. The word grated against his nerves. Predictable wasn’t him. It wasn’t them. Their relationship, transactional as it was, wasn’t supposed to fit into neat little boxes. It was supposed to be different.

He was supposed to be different.

But here he was, sitting in a dingy garage with his friends, trying to rationalize the irrational. Trying to figure out why he cared so much about a past that wasn’t supposed to matter.

“You guys are way off,” he said finally, his tone light but his grip on the cue stick betraying him. “If she did have someone before me, they weren’t memorable. She’s with me now, isn’t she? That’s all that counts.”

“Spoken like a true charmer,” one of them teased, and he smirked, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

Yeah, she was with him now. That was all that mattered.

So why didn’t it feel like enough?

———

The ribbing didn’t stop. If anything, it picked up speed like a train without brakes, and he was tied to the tracks.

“You’re really off your game tonight, man,” one of them said, chalking the tip of his cue stick. “You keep spacing out, missing shots, and letting us win? That’s not you. You’re usually the one handing us our asses.”

Another chimed in, leaning against the edge of the table with a sly grin. “Seriously, you’ve got this whole garage thinking. Is the great charmer finally losing his touch? That what’s bugging you?”

He twirled his cue with exaggerated nonchalance, plastering a smirk across his face even as his grip tightened enough to whiten his knuckles. “Please. Like I’d ever lose my touch. I could charm the rust off a bolt if I wanted to. I’m just... keeping things interesting. Letting you guys feel like you’ve got a shot for once.”

The laughter was immediate, loud, and thoroughly unconvinced. One of them even doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“Yeah, right. You’ve been distracted all night. And don’t think we didn’t catch the little bombshell you dropped earlier. The Ice Queen has a romantic history?”

“Shocking, right?” another piped up, voice dripping with mock astonishment. “I mean, no offense, but she doesn’t seem like the type to go for you. Or anyone, really.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t interrupt, knowing that trying to stop them would only make it worse. He’d been here before—well, not exactly here, but close enough to know the best way out was to wait until they got bored.

Too bad that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

“I mean, think about it,” one of them continued, his tone growing more amused by the second. “She’s this cold, untouchable, straight-laced type. Always looks like she’s got a stick up her—”

“Careful,” he interrupted, his tone light but the edge unmistakable. The shift in the air was subtle but palpable, like the faint scent of ozone before a storm.

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. My bad. I was just saying—she’s not exactly your usual type. And you’re definitely not hers.”

“Yeah,” another added with a smirk. “She probably goes for, like, bookworm types. You know, the quiet, nerdy guys who read poetry and bring her tea while she’s working. The ones who wouldn’t dare try anything until they’ve written a formal letter asking for permission.”

That earned a round of chuckles, and his smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Not that anyone else noticed—they were too busy piling on.

“Yeah, man, face it. You’re too loud, too flashy. She probably thinks you’re just a walking ego trip. All charm, no substance.”

“Exactly,” someone else added. “It’s probably why your charm doesn’t work on her. She’s immune. Bet she’s only with you because it’s convenient or something.”

The words hit harder than they should have, slipping under his skin and sticking there like splinters. He forced out a laugh, sharp and just a little too loud. “Convenient? Yeah, right. She’s lucky to have me. I’m the full package: brains, brawn, and a personality that makes life interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” another guy said, raising an eyebrow. “Or annoying? Pretty sure those are interchangeable in your case.”

“Hey, she hasn’t dumped me yet,” he shot back, deflecting with practiced ease. “That’s gotta count for something.”

But even as he spoke, the words rang hollow. His usual bravado felt like a thin shell, barely holding together under the weight of something he didn’t want to name. Something ugly, and burning, and clawing at the edges of his chest.

Jealousy.

He hated admitting it, even to himself. But the idea of her with some quiet, bookish type—the kind of guy who might actually understand her silences and match her calm, reclusive nature—was like sandpaper against his nerves.

And worse, the idea that she might prefer someone like that...

He clenched his jaw, his smirk freezing into something sharper.

“You know,” one of them said, breaking into his thoughts, “it’s kinda funny. For all your talk, you’re acting a lot like a guy who’s got something to prove. Like you actually care what she thinks.”

“I don’t,” he lied smoothly, his voice as light as air. “Why would I? It’s not like this is anything serious.”

The words tasted bitter, but he swallowed them down, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Whatever you say, man,” someone said, shaking their head. “But you might want to figure it out before she realizes you’re not as cool as you think you are.”

The garage erupted into laughter again, and he joined in, the sound loud and hollow.

But later, when he was alone, the laughter would fade, leaving only the burning question that wouldn’t let him rest:

Why did it matter so damn much?

────────────

The stars above the city burned cold, distant, and sharp as needles. The private balcony was far enough from the glittering chaos of the gala to offer a semblance of quiet, though the muffled hum of music and laughter still seeped through the glass doors. The cold air bit at your skin, but it was a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the crowd.

He leaned against the balustrade, a champagne flute dangling from his fingers, the liquid untouched and shimmering like pale gold in the faint light. His tailored suit clung to his frame, the picture of nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him—glinting with something predatory, something calculating.

“So,” he began, his voice smooth and edged with a teasing lilt. “I was thinking.”

You didn’t bother to turn from the view of the sprawling city below. “That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, soft and low, but there was a weight to it that made your spine stiffen. He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk sizing up its prey. “Funny. No, really, I’ve been thinking about us.”

“Us,” you echoed flatly. “The contract is clear. There’s nothing to think about.”

“Sure,” he said, pushing off the railing and stepping closer. His presence was like a shadow swallowing light, oppressive and impossible to ignore. “But I’ve been reviewing it, and I think we’ve overlooked some... fine print.”

“Fine print,” you repeated, finally turning to face him, your expression impassive. “There is no fine print. You drafted it yourself, remember?”

“Exactly,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which means I have the right to amend it if I see fit. And I’ve noticed a few areas that could use... adjustment.”

You crossed your arms, your gaze narrowing. “Such as?”

He stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne mingled with the crisp night air. His tone was light, almost playful, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something that coiled around his words like smoke.

“For one,” he began, “I think we need to establish clearer boundaries about third-party interactions. You know, to avoid misunderstandings.”

Your brow twitched. “There haven’t been any misunderstandings.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, his voice soft and coaxing, like a blade hidden in velvet. “But let’s be proactive. For instance, we should clarify what kind of behavior is acceptable when interacting with... other men.”

You stared at him, your expression as unyielding as stone. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Is it?” he countered, his grin sharpening. “You don’t think it’s wise to define expectations? After all, appearances are everything. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about us.”

“People already know what this is,” you said coolly. “A performance. There’s no need to complicate it.”

“But isn’t the whole point of a performance to make it convincing?” he asked, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “And for that, we need consistency. Unity. Which is why I propose we add a clause about exclusive proximity.”

“Exclusive proximity,” you echoed, your voice flat. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” he asked, tilting his head. “Think about it. If we’re seen with too many... distractions, it undermines the whole charade. It’s just common sense.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already pressing on, his words smooth and relentless.

———

The air seemed to thin as his words settled between you, the kind of silence that carried a weight far heavier than sound. He leaned closer, bracing himself against the railing with the kind of ease that betrayed the sharpness lurking beneath his carefully curated mask of charm. The city glittered below, but its brilliance felt muted compared to the fire smoldering in his gaze.

“Let me break it down,” he said, his voice silken, the edges just sharp enough to catch. “Exclusivity isn’t just about proximity. It’s about cohesion. A story without holes. Every moment you’re with someone else—a colleague, a stranger, hell, even a waiter—it opens a crack in the facade.”

Your eyes flicked to him, narrowing. “You’re reaching.”

He smiled—a wolfish, predatory thing. “Am I? Think about it. Someone catches sight of you laughing with some random nobody, and suddenly, the gossip mill is running wild. The illusion cracks. We lose credibility. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s losing.”

The venomous certainty in his tone made your stomach twist, though your face remained unreadable. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

He straightened, his shadow looming over you as if it carried a weight beyond the physical. “Ground rules. For both of us. Simple ones. For example…” He tapped a finger against the champagne flute, the ring of the glass echoing faintly. “No private conversations with anyone of interest. No one-on-one meetings without prior notice. And no touching—intentional or otherwise—unless absolutely necessary.”

Your brow arched, your lips tightening. “No touching. That’s… excessive.”

“Is it?” he shot back smoothly, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “Think about it. Even the smallest gesture—a hand on the shoulder, a brush of fingers—can be misconstrued. Especially when it’s you.” His gaze flickered, a flash of something unspoken. “People notice you. They watch. And they talk.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back slightly against the balcony rail. “Fine. But if we’re establishing rules, they go both ways. You don’t exactly have a reputation for restraint.”

His grin widened, amusement flickering in the depths of his eyes. “Touché. Consider it mutual, then. No unnecessary interaction, no inappropriate proximity. Strictly business.”

“And why now?” you asked, your voice measured, almost detached. “Why bring this up tonight?”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—an almost imperceptible crack in the facade. But he recovered quickly, his grin sharpening. “Call it foresight. With the families involved, things get messier. More eyes, more pressure. We can’t afford to slip.”

You studied him, your silence stretching just long enough to make his fingers twitch against the railing. Finally, you inclined your head. “Fine. If that’s what it takes to keep this convincing, I’ll play along.”

He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but carried none of the humor. “Good. I knew you’d see reason.” He lifted his champagne glass in a mock toast, the liquid catching the starlight like liquid fire. “To flawless performances.”

You didn’t respond, turning back to the city below. The cold bit deeper now, but you didn’t shiver. Behind you, his gaze lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

The ground rules were set, the game clearly defined. But as the night pressed on, the sense of control he so carefully clung to felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

And it wasn’t the rules that haunted him—it was why he felt the need to create them in the first place.

———

He leaned casually against the railing, but his posture was deceptively loose, the sharp intelligence in his eyes betraying his calculated intent. The champagne glass in his hand caught the faint glow of the city below, though he hadn’t touched a drop.

“So,” he began, his tone laced with a playful edge, “while we’re ironing out the details, there’s another area I think we should revisit. Physical affection.”

Your eyes snapped to his, cold and narrowed. “What about it?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly as though considering his words carefully. “Let’s be honest. Right now, the way things are? We’re convincing, sure—but just barely. The hand-holding, the occasional arm around the waist? It’s surface-level. Anyone with half a brain can see through it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “It’s enough to maintain appearances without crossing unnecessary lines.”

His grin widened, but there was an almost imperceptible edge to it, a flicker of something darker in his expression. “Enough for who? The nosy old ladies at brunch? Sure. But for the vultures at this level? Not a chance. They smell weakness. And right now, what they see screams ‘contractual convenience,’ not passion. We need to up our game.”

You folded your arms across your chest, your stance unmoving. “Define ‘up our game.’”

“Well,” he said smoothly, setting the untouched glass on the railing, “kisses, for one. Not just the casual kind. Something real. Convincing. Hell, even a few heated moments in public wouldn’t hurt. And behind closed doors?” He gave a mock shrug, his grin turning teasing. “Who knows? Maybe even a little noise for the sake of appearances.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall from your skull. “You’re joking.”

“Am I?” he replied, his tone maddeningly reasonable. “Think about it. The way things are now, people will start talking. Rumors of a weak marriage. Arranged out of convenience, not love. And with you being... well, you—” his gaze flicked over you, deliberate and lingering— “it won’t take long for people to start circling. People like to test boundaries when they think they can get away with it.”

“People already talk,” you shot back. “That’s inevitable. But none of this changes the fact that this is fake. I’m not pretending that far.”

“Why not?” he countered, his grin sharpening. “You’ve already agreed to exclusivity. This is just the logical next step.”

“It’s unnecessary,” you said flatly. “The exclusivity rules make sense. This? This is overreach.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost coaxing tone. “Is it, though? Think about it. If we don’t convince them, it undermines everything we’ve built. You don’t want to spend the rest of this arrangement fending off speculation and propositions, do you?”

“Speculation is manageable,” you said, your voice cool and steady. “And propositions are irrelevant. I can handle myself.”

“Of course you can,” he said, his tone light but his gaze intense. “But why should you have to? Why not just nip it in the bud? Make it clear to everyone that you’re untouchable.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your patience fraying. “I already am untouchable.”

His grin didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—jealousy, sharp and bitter. “Sure. But people don’t see that. What they see is opportunity. The kind that comes from a woman who’s too beautiful, too brilliant, and too unattainable for her own good.”

The words were teasing, but the way he said them made your skin prickle. There was something possessive lurking beneath the surface, something he tried to bury beneath layers of logic and charm but couldn’t entirely hide.

“This isn’t about logic,” you said, your voice steady but edged with steel. “It’s about control. And I’m not giving you that.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin turning mischievous. “Touché. But hey, I’m just saying—when the rumors start flying and the vultures start circling, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You turned back to the city, dismissing him with a sharp glance. “Noted. But the answer is still no.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “Fair enough. For now.”

———

The cold of the night pressed against your skin, biting and relentless, but his body, wrapped tightly around yours, was an oppressive heat you couldn’t shake. The weight of his arms on your shoulders felt heavier than it should, his fingers grazing your arms with a possessive slowness. He leaned into you, his chest firm against your back, his breath warm and invasive against your ear.

“You know,” he murmured, his tone as smooth as the glassy city lights below, “this hesitation of yours—it’s fascinating. Almost charming, in its own way. But... I can’t help but wonder.” His voice dipped lower, a silken purr laced with something darker. “What’s got you so hesitant? People do this all the time, don’t they? Even when it doesn’t mean anything.”

You stiffened, your gaze locked on the sprawling cityscape, refusing to turn. Your neutrality was a fortress, built brick by brick to withstand his probing. But his persistence was a battering ram. Slowly, deliberately, he dipped his head closer, inhaling deeply near the curve of your neck, the action intimate enough to send a shiver rippling through your body.

“Unless,” he mused, his lips curving into a smirk you couldn’t see but could feel like a knife at your throat, “it’s because of them. You know, the one who got that first kiss of yours. Was it them?”

The question hung in the air, venomous and cutting. For a fraction of a second, the apathy on your face cracked—a millisecond’s slip in the armor you wore so flawlessly. Your hand twitched, and your lips parted as though to respond, but no words came. Instead, your expression hardened once more, a glacial mask snapping back into place. Silent. Untouchable.

But he had seen it.

That brief, fleeting moment of vulnerability had told him more than you ever could. And though his smile remained, it was stretched too tight, his teeth bared in something that wasn’t amusement. His fingers dug into your shoulders, just a little too hard, before softening as if to mask the momentary lapse in control.

“Ah,” he said, the word slipping out in a low exhale, almost inaudible. He pressed closer, the air between you suffocating. “So it was them. That explains so much.”

His tone was still light, teasing, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable, coiling tighter and tighter beneath his practiced facade. His lips ghosted near your temple, the proximity a calculated weapon, and his fingers trailed down your arms, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

“You know,” he continued, his voice honeyed but sickly sweet, “whoever they were... they must have left quite the impression to make you this way. But I’m curious—did it mean anything to you? Or was it just... a moment?”

Your silence was deafening, a dagger plunged into the space between you.

He chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. “Not that it matters, of course. You’re here now, with me. That’s all that really counts, isn’t it?”

But his grip tightened imperceptibly, his smile curving into something dangerous, something that betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface. He didn’t let go. If anything, his hold on you became stronger, his presence more invasive.

And though he kept his composure, the truth was a venomous whisper in his mind, sinking its fangs deep and twisting.

Not fucking happy at all.

────────────

He didn't bring it up again. Any of it, anymore.

But, the room still felt colder than it should have. The air conditioning hummed low, but the chill that seeped into your skin wasn’t mechanical. It was the kind of cold that came from within, from the way your fingers gripped the edge of the desk too tightly, from the rigidity in your spine as you pretended not to notice the man leaning against the corner with the practiced ease of someone who could read you too well.

He’d been watching you for too long now, his gaze like a scalpel, peeling away layers you’d tried so hard to keep intact. He shifted, breaking the stillness with a deliberate, exaggerated sigh.

“You know,” he began, his voice carrying that maddeningly playful lilt, “if looks could kill, that desk would be in pieces by now. What’d it ever do to you, baby?”

You didn’t answer. Of course, you didn’t.

He moved closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile air. The sound of his footsteps was soft but deliberate, a hunter’s tread. “Still giving me the silent treatment? Harsh. I’m starting to think you don’t appreciate my charming company.”

“Go away,” you said, your voice clipped, devoid of emotion. Your fingers tightened on the desk, a small tell he didn’t miss.

“Aw, come on,” he said, his grin audible in his voice. “Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to help. You know, as your incredibly dedicated, selfless boyfriend.” He leaned closer, his hand resting on the back of your chair. “And let’s face it, I’m the only person who’d put up with you when you’re like this.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t look at him. It was exactly the reaction he wanted.

“Seriously,” he continued, his tone shifting to something softer but no less teasing. “What’s going on? You’re more wound up than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“I’m fine,” you said, the words flat, a wall slamming down between you.

“Sure you are,” he said, circling around to lean on the desk beside you. He crossed his arms, his smirk unwavering. “You know, for someone so icy, you’re terrible at hiding when something’s bothering you.”

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, your tone sharper now.

“And I said I don’t believe you,” he shot back, his voice light but with an edge of persistence. “C’mon, Ice Queen. What’s eating at you? Work? Family? Or did someone finally dare to make eye contact for more than three seconds?”

You ignored him, your focus locked on the papers in front of you, but he wasn’t deterred. He crouched slightly, putting himself in your line of sight.

“Look, I get it,” he said, his tone almost mockingly serious. “You’re all about the whole ‘strong, independent, untouchable’ thing. Very admirable. But newsflash, sweetheart: nobody’s that stoic all the time. Except maybe statues. And even they crack eventually.”

You pushed back from the desk abruptly, rising to your feet, but he didn’t give you space. Instead, he moved closer, his hand brushing your arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re really not gonna tell me, huh?” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “Not even a hint? A clue? C’mon, I’m dying here.”

You stiffened, stepping away, but he followed, his persistence like a shadow clinging to your every move. His hand caught yours this time, his grip firm but not forceful.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head with a smirk that was all sharp edges, “this whole ‘bottling it up’ thing you do? It’s kinda cute. Annoying, but cute. But it’s also not healthy. So spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” you snapped, finally turning to face him. Your eyes were cold, your voice even colder, but he wasn’t fazed.

“Liar,” he said simply, his grin widening. “You’re terrible at it, by the way. And you know I’m not going anywhere until you give me something.”

You glared at him, your jaw tightening, but he just leaned closer, his fingers brushing against your arm. “Is it work? Someone bothering you? Or—” His tone shifted, sly and teasing now. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is it me? Did I finally get under your skin?”

“Always,” you muttered, pulling your hand free and turning away.

He laughed, the sound warm but with a sharpness that didn’t quite match. “Good. Means I’m doing my job right. But seriously, baby girl, if someone’s bothering you—besides me, obviously—you’d tell me, right?”

You didn’t answer, and for a moment, the teasing dropped from his voice entirely. He straightened, his gaze darkening as he watched you retreat to the far side of the room.

“You don’t tell anyone anything, do you?” he said softly, almost to himself. The words weren’t a question; they were a statement, heavy with an emotion he refused to name.

You paused, your back to him, but didn’t turn.

“Fine,” he said after a moment, his usual bravado snapping back into place like armor. He grinned, stepping toward you again. “Keep your secrets. But just so you know, sweetheart, I’m very good at getting what I want. And you? You’re not as unreadable as you think.”

The way he said it—soft, teasing, but with an undercurrent of something darker—sent a shiver down your spine. But you didn’t respond, and he didn’t push further. Not yet.

────────────

The glow of his laptop bathed the dim room in cold, blue light. The muffled sounds of the city filtered through the cracked window—a distant hum of engines, the occasional wail of a siren. But none of it reached him. His focus was absolute, his fingers ghosting over the keyboard with a precision that bordered on surgical.

Lines of text blurred and refreshed, tabs multiplied, searches refined. It was nothing. It was nothing. Just... research. A precaution, really. Something any diligent professional would do in his field.

"Due diligence." The phrase rolled through his mind like a soothing mantra as he adjusted his search parameters. Business students did this all the time, didn’t they? Gathering information on potential clients, tracking leads. It wasn’t unethical—it was smart. Practical. Just like he was.

His brow furrowed as the screen refreshed again, yielding nothing new. No personal social media accounts. No tagged photos. Everything you had out there was airtight—pristine. Your LinkedIn was polished to perfection, clinical and devoid of any personal flair. Your work email was meticulously professional. No footprints, no cracks.

You were a fortress, an enigma wrapped in ice, and it was maddening.

"Not even a stupid Instagram," he muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand through his hair. His other hand hovered over the touchpad, fingers twitching with a restless energy he couldn’t quite contain. He hated how good you were at this, at keeping the world at arm's length. It was infuriating.

And yet, it only made him more determined.

Because how else was he supposed to help you? Protect you? It wasn’t like you’d talk to him, let alone open up. You were a steel door slammed shut, your apathy the lock, and your sharp, biting tongue the key he could never quite reach.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t stalking,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud could make it true. “This is... protecting my investment.”

He winced at the word. It felt wrong somehow, but logical. The contract between you two was the foundation of your relationship, after all. If you didn’t want to share your problems with him, fine—but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. That wasn’t who he was.

“People research celebrities all the time,” he reasoned, his voice low and even, the rhythm of his own words calming. “Background checks, public records... It’s normal. It’s not like I’m invading her privacy. This is just... strategy.”

But even as he said it, a part of him bristled.

It wasn’t just strategy. And he knew it.

The truth was, it gnawed at him—the not knowing. The mystery of you was a drug he couldn’t quit, the unanswered questions keeping him awake at night. Who was the person who kissed you first? Why did your walls feel so much higher, so much thicker, lately? What the hell was going on in that brilliant, maddening head of yours?

He leaned forward again, fingers flying across the keyboard with renewed purpose. If he couldn’t ask you, he’d find out on his own. He told himself it wasn’t because he needed to know, wasn’t because the thought of anyone else touching you—or knowing you—made his stomach twist with something cold and acidic.

No, it wasn’t jealousy again. It was logic. Rationality.

But as the hours ticked by and the search grew colder, that logic began to crack.

His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen—one of the boys from the garage had sent a message, probably another joke about his “domestication.” He ignored it, returning his gaze to the screen.

Nothing. Again.

“Damn it,” he hissed, slamming the laptop shut with more force than necessary. He sat back, running both hands through his hair, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

You were impossible. And that impossibility—it thrilled him. Infuriated him. Tore at him like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

But he wouldn’t stop. Not until he had answers.

Because protecting you wasn’t just part of the job anymore.

It was everything.

Yandere! Ex-Boyfriend & Cheating Bitch

Novella 1 : Friction & Fire

She wasn't looking for love, but love wasn't asking for permission.

Some truths are better left buried.

♡ A/N. Not me only realizing recently that this was a FINISHED work that I never posted. My drafts in Tumblr are a mess I tell you. It's like the various requests, fandoms, and works in general are mixing wahaha. YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE???? It's like I'm universe hopping in the multiverse, going to different fandoms and worlds to bring the content you all want. And, just like someone with multiple jobs and side hustles; if it's not recorded or arranged right, it gets lost to the void I tell you. wahhhhh

♡ Masterlist. If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

♡ Tag List. “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring , @lilyalone , @theogborjie , @ne7zach , @songbirdgardensworld

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. ����Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[rizzanon]

Background Info 2 (Tim, Cassandra, Stephanie, Damian, Duke Centered)

I think your relationship with Tim is more complicated than you wanted it to be. When he first came about to the family, he was the reason you found out about your family’s secrets. The ones that they’ve been hiding from you from the start. And for some reason, as a kid, you didn’t know whether you should be thankful, or hate him for that.

Why? Because the truth was a double-edged sword. On one hand, you had always felt like something was off about your family—the late nights, the unexplained bruises and injuries, the way they avoided topics like they were landmines. Tim revealing the truth was like solving a puzzle you didn’t know you were piecing together. But on the other hand, the truth came with a weight you hadn’t been prepared for before.

A part of you wanted to be grateful—Tim had given you the truth when no one else had. But another part of you couldn’t help but resent him. It was as if he had stolen the illusion of normalcy you clung to, replacing it with danger, secrets, and an overwhelming realization how much more you actually needed to do to get the approval of your family.

For the first few months of Tim being Robin, you didn’t see him as anything other than Jason’s replacement.

Jason had been your brother in every sense of the word. A little rough around the edges, sure, but he had a way of making you feel seen, even when the rest of the family was too caught up in their own world to notice you. So when he died, it left a gaping hole—not just in the family but in you. When Tim came along and slid into Jason’s place like it was as simple as filling a role, it was hard not to hate him for it.

You avoided him at first, ignored all of his attempts to be friendly or cordial. You refused to acknowledge him as anything other than “the new Robin.” You knew it was childish, but you were only 12 then. It wasn’t fair, you knew that, but grief doesn’t lend itself to rationality. Eventually, though, you started to let go of that resentment. He wasn’t Jason, but he wasn’t trying to be him either. He was just Tim.

So, you decided to try. He was close to your age, after all, and you figured, at the very least, you could be friends. But Tim didn’t seem to feel the same way. To him, you were Batman’s daughter, that was it. He kept things polite and distant, never letting you close enough to feel like anything more than an acquaintance.

That dynamic didn’t really shift until the death of his father. When Jack Drake was killed by Captain Boomerang, and Bruce formally adopted Tim, you felt for him in a way you hadn’t before. Losing a parent was a kind of pain you couldn’t imagine, and for the first time, you saw him as more than just “the new Robin”. You pitied him.

You tried to comfort him, offering him a shoulder to lean on and small acts of kindness. But Tim didn’t want your pity. If anything, it seemed to make him pull away even further. He started treating you less like family, and more like a roommate—someone he tolerated living with but didn’t go out of his way to connect with.

You didn’t push him. If that’s what he needed, fine. But you still wanted to be close to him, so you found other ways to try. You’d ask him for help with missions and cases, knowing how smart and capable he was, hoping it might bridge the gap between you. For a while, it worked—or at least, it felt like it did. But over time, Tim’s frustration began to show. He never said it outright, but his body language spoke volumes: the tight set of his jaw, the way he’d sigh when you approached, the way his answers grew shorter and more clipped.

Eventually, you stopped asking.

And that’s how it’s been ever since. The two of you drifted into a rhythm, more like estranged colleagues or roommates than siblings, or in the very least, friends. You didn’t mind—at least, that’s what you told yourself. But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if things could’ve been different, if you had acted differently from the very start.

When Cassandra first joined the family, you were slightly excited because, for the first time, you had a sister. An older one, in fact. It felt like a chance to have someone who might understand you in a way the others didn’t.

But then you found out that she didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak, write, or even read. The excitement you felt faltered, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. How were you supposed to bond with someone when you couldn’t even talk to them? At the time, you didn’t fully understand the extent of her struggles or the horrors she had endured. All you saw was the surface—a girl who communicated through body language and a few cryptic gestures.

At first, you weren’t sure how to approach her. Conversations were one-sided, and you found yourself rambling awkwardly, trying to fill the silence. She would watch you intently, her dark eyes seeming to take in every word, every movement, but she never responded. It made you feel exposed, like she could see through every layer you tried to hide behind.

Still, you tried. You offered to help her learn, even though you weren’t exactly the best teacher. You’d leave sticky notes with simple words written on them, hoping she’d start to recognize them. Sometimes she’d glance at them, but other times, she’d brush past them as if they weren’t there.

It was disheartening at first, but then there were moments that gave you hope. A small smile when you handed her something. A nod of acknowledgment when you rambled about your day. Slowly, you began to realize that Cassandra spoke volumes without ever saying a word.

But even as you grew to understand her, there was a part of you that wondered if she ever really saw you the same way. She bonded so quickly with Bruce, with Barbara, even with Tim. They seemed to understand her in ways you couldn’t, and it made you feel like an outsider all over again.

You wanted to be close to her, to have the sisterly relationship you’d always imagined, but it felt like you were chasing something that was always just out of reach. Cassandra was kind, patient even, but there was always a distance—an invisible wall that kept you from getting too close. You weren’t sure if it was something she put up or something you did.

But when she was getting mire familiar with speaking and reading, you noticed that she started to avoid you. Subtly. Cassandra didn’t see you as someone to guide or protect. In her eyes, you were fragile, someone who didn’t belong in the same world of violence and shadows that had shaped her. She didn’t want you to go down this path, in a way, she wanted you to live your life away from this.

But that’s not what you wanted. When you tried to train with her, hoping to gain her approval, she’d effortlessly disarm you, her movements almost lazy. “Not ready,” she’d say bluntly, walking away without further explanation. You were left feeling small, unworthy. And in a way, that sparked the initial tension between you and her.

As the years went by though, you hated that you were feeling jealous over the fact that your father seemed to see Cassandra as more of a daughter than with you. You’ve seen the way they bonded, seen the way Bruce’s usually stoic demeanor softened ever so slightly when Cassandra was around. It wasn’t like he ignored you, but it was different. With Cassandra, there was a shared understanding, an unspoken connection forged in the language of the battlefield—a language you never quite mastered.

You tried to convince yourself it didn’t bother you. After all, Bruce was distant with everyone, wasn’t he? But the more you watched him mentor her, the more you saw the effort he put into helping her grow—not just as a fighter, but as a person—the harder it became to push those feelings of inadequacy aside.

Cassandra, for her part, didn’t seem to notice how much it hurt. Or if she did, she didn’t say anything. She was focused, always pushing herself to be better, stronger, faster. And you… you felt like you were standing still, trying to catch up but never quite reaching her.

The jealousy festered quietly. You hated feeling that way toward her, especially when she hadn’t done anything wrong. She deserved Bruce’s attention. She deserved to be seen. But so did you. And no matter how hard you tried, it felt like you were always coming up short in his eyes.

Over time, you started pulling back. You stopped asking her to train with you. Stopped leaving notes or trying to initiate conversations. Instead, you kept to yourself, throwing yourself into missions and tasks that didn’t involve her or Bruce. Maybe if you worked hard enough, fought hard enough, they’d finally see you as an equal.

But the distance didn’t fix anything. It only made the loneliness worse. You missed the small moments with Cassandra, the fleeting smiles and quiet nods. And even though you’d never admit it out loud, you missed the rare moments of connection with Bruce too.

The truth was, you didn’t know how to bridge the gap between you and Cassandra—or anyone in the family, for that matter. You were stuck in a cycle of trying too hard and pulling away, and no matter what you did, it never felt like enough.

And as for Stephanie, you two have never actually been close. At first, you just saw her as Tim’s girlfriend, and that was it. You didn’t pay her much attention beyond that. But things shifted dramatically when Barbara and Dick allowed her to take up the Batgirl mantle while your father was “dead.”

The first time you saw her in her version of the Batgirl costume, it felt like the world stopped. That symbol, that legacy—it was supposed to mean something, and seeing her wear it felt like a betrayal. Dick brought her along as Batgirl during his time as Batman, with Damian as his Robin, and the sight of them together cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

You felt replaced. Tossed aside. Forgotten. And that feeling lit a fire in you—a desperate, burning need to prove that you deserved to be Batgirl more than Stephanie ever did. This wasn’t just about the costume or the name; it was about everything it represented. Respect. Recognition. Family.

So, yes, it became a one-sided rivalry, fueled by jealousy and betrayal. You trained harder, worked yourself to the brink, but no matter how much you pushed, it never felt like enough. Stephanie had been doing this longer than you had, and her experience showed. But that didn’t make it sting any less when you watched her work alongside Dick and Damian with an ease you couldn’t seem to replicate.

When your father returned, you thought things would change—that maybe this would be your chance to finally step into the role you’d been striving for. But even then, Stephanie remained Batgirl, and Bruce seemed to call on her more often than he did you. For recon missions, patrols, you name it—she was his go-to. It hurt, deeply.

And when Stephanie eventually stepped down from being Batgirl to return to her original mantle as Spoiler, it didn’t bring you the satisfaction you thought it would. You didn’t “win.” There was no triumph, no validation that you were the better Batgirl. Stephanie left on her own terms, and that only made it worse.

You felt like you’d lost. Lost the unspoken competition you’d waged in your own head, lost your chance to prove your worth. And that sense of failure—it ate away at you, leaving behind a bitterness you couldn’t shake. Instead of quelling your insecurities, it only made them worse, fueling a toxic cycle of self-doubt and a relentless need to prove yourself.

Maybe in another life, things would’ve been different. Maybe you and Stephanie could’ve been friends, allies even. But the weight of your own jealousy and toxic mentality made that impossible. You wanted to reach out, to connect, but every time you tried, that voice in your head reminded you of all the ways you’d fallen short. And so, the distance between you and Stephanie only grew, just like it had with everyone else.

As for Damian, your relationship with him has always been a mixed bag. When he first showed up at the manor, you didn’t know what to make of him. He was brash, arrogant, and entirely too confident for someone so young. At first, you thought he was just some spoiled brat with a superiority complex. And honestly? You weren’t far off.

He didn’t waste any time asserting himself, loudly proclaiming that he was the true heir to Batman’s legacy and making it clear he saw you as competition. Not a sibling, not even an ally—just someone to outmatch. He called you soft, mocked your fighting skills, and dismissed your efforts to keep the peace as weakness. It was exhausting, to say the least.

At the same time, though, you couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. He’d been thrust into a completely unfamiliar world, taken from the League of Assassins and dropped into the Wayne family chaos. It was clear he didn’t know how to connect with anyone, and for all his bravado, there was something lonely about him.

You tried to bridge the gap at first, hoping to at least build a sense of camaraderie. But Damian made it difficult. He was quick to push you away, and any attempt to be friendly was met with biting remarks or scornful looks. Over time, you learned to keep your distance, picking your battles carefully.

What made it worse was how Bruce and Dick always seemed to take his side. When he antagonized you or picked fights, their solution was always the same:

“Be patient with him,” or, “He’s still adjusting. Give him time.”

But how could you? He was the one who started the fights, who insulted you at every opportunity. No one seemed to care about that part.

Still, as much as Damian constantly undermined you, there were moments—fleeting and rare—when you noticed something different. He wasn’t as dismissive as he pretended to be. There were times when you’d find your weapons repaired after training or your notes on a case mysteriously corrected. He never said anything about it, and you never brought it up, but you knew it was him.

Even his insults, as cruel as they were, sometimes felt… purposeful. Like he was testing you, pushing you to be better. At first, you thought it was just an excuse you made up to deal with his attitude, but over time, it became clear that his criticism wasn’t entirely baseless. Damian had a way of pointing out your flaws in a way no one else did—harshly, yes, but sometimes accurately.

As the years went on, your dynamic shifted. The outright animosity faded, though it never disappeared entirely. There were still arguments, snide remarks, and moments where you swore he was intentionally trying to get under your skin. But there was also a strange, unspoken understanding.

You’d never call yourselves close. You’d never confide in each other or share heartfelt moments. But there was a bond, however tenuous, forged by shared experiences and blood. There was a mutual, begrudging respect that neither of you would admit out loud.

At the end of the day, Damian was still Damian. He still had his sharp tongue and holier-than-thou attitude, and you still had your resentment. But underneath it all, there was a flicker of something—rivalry mixed with loyalty, disdain mixed with a reluctant sense of family. It wasn’t perfect, and it probably never would be. But it was enough.

For Duke, it’s a bit different. He joined the family relatively later than the others, and Bruce didn’t officially adopt him into the family—he only fostered him. That distinction didn’t seem to matter to anyone else, though. From the moment Duke stepped into the manor, he fit right in.

Whenever you and Duke crossed paths, he was always nice. Friendly, even. But just like with the others, there was this invisible wall between you and him. Why? You weren’t entirely sure. Maybe it was because you noticed how easily he got along with the rest of your siblings, how seamlessly they accepted him. They included him in more things, leaned on him more during missions, and spent more time with him than they did with you.

It wasn’t like you hated him for that. No, never. Duke wasn’t the problem—it was the growing realization that once again, you were on the outside looking in. You couldn’t help but feel like you were being edged out of your own family. And that hurt, both your pride and your heart.

There were moments when you tried to connect with him, telling him about a lead you’d found or an idea you had for a case. Duke always listened, but his responses left a sting. Comments like, “Are you sure you can handle this stuff by yourself?” or, “You don’t want any help?” or even, “Maybe you should get Dick or Cass to help you out with this.”

You knew he probably meant well, but those words dug deep. It felt like he didn’t think you were capable, that he saw you as someone who couldn’t hold their own. You never said anything about it, of course, but it only strengthened your resolve to prove yourself.

And maybe that was the problem. The more you tried to show him—and everyone else—that you were competent, the more strained things became. It wasn’t outright hostility, not by any means, but there was a tension that lingered between you. A mutual awkwardness neither of you ever addressed.

At the end of the day, though, Duke was Duke. You weren’t enemies, and you didn’t resent him. You were friends, at the very least. But there was always that wall, a quiet reminder that, even in your own family, you were never quite enough.

I hope this was able to effectively portrag the fact that the reader is far from a perfect person, because I don’t think I was able to show that in the first background info. I feel that growing up in such an emotionally stunted family would inevitably shape her into someone complex and flawed. She wouldn’t be endlessly hopeful or optimistic. How could she be? She’s not just some perpetually kind, selfless girl with no negative emotions. Instead, her experiences have made her someone who struggles with jealousy, insecurity, and a need to prove herself, even if it leads to toxic behavior… but i hope y’all enjoyed this part!! lmk what you think <3

Part 1 (Alfred, Bruce, Dick, Barbara, Jason Centered)

m.list

taglist (open): @tricksters-maze @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @silverklaus @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @beeweensblog @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows | ask to be added <3

(idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓)

[srslyblvck]

a dare too far, james potter [ Part II ]

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

synopsis: james was dared to make you fall in love with him. unknown to him, he was falling for you too. But soon the truth comes out, and you are left heartbroken.

genre: angst

warnings: mentions of y/n, heartbreak

word count: 5.5k [ a/n: what can i say, i lost track lmao ]

part I

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE DAYS FOLLOWING YOUR discovery had been a blur of pain and confusion. You had avoided James like the plague, refusing to even look in his direction. Your heart still ached, but your pride and self-respect kept you from falling apart in front of everyone.

It wasn’t long before your friends—Archie, Leonard, Autumn, and Florence—noticed something was wrong. They knew you too well, and your sudden distance from James didn’t go unnoticed. You hadn’t said a word about what had happened, but one afternoon, while you sat with them at lunch, Florence finally broke the silence.

“Y/N,” she began softly, “what happened with James?”

Your fork stilled in your hand, and for a moment, you debated lying. But the weight of it all was too much to bear alone, and with a deep breath, you told them everything. From the dare to your overheard conversation in the library, every heartbreaking detail spilt out. By the time you finished, your friends were fuming.

“He did what?” Archie’s voice was low, dangerous. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

Leonard, usually calm and rational, had gone stiff, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. “He was using you… for a stupid dare? Merlin’s beard…”

Autumn reached across the table to grasp your hand, her face a mix of empathy and fury. “That—that is despicable.”

Florence was quieter, but her steely expression said it all. She had always been protective of you, and seeing you hurt had ignited something fierce within her.

Archie was the first to stand, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape. “Where are they?” he asked, his voice like ice. “Where’s Potter and his pack of idiots?”

You shook your head, reaching out to stop him. “Archie, please—don’t do anything. It’s not worth it.”

But Archie’s mind was made up. “Not worth it? He messed with your heart, Y/N. He hurt you. That’s more than worth it.”

Leonard and Autumn exchanged a glance, and Leonard stood as well, his usually calm face clouded with anger. “He’s not getting away with this.”

“I don’t want you to fight—” you tried again, but Archie had already turned to leave, his face set in grim determination.

“You don’t have to come,” he said, his voice softer now, though still filled with anger. “But I’m not letting this slide.”

Before you could say another word, Archie and the others were already storming out of the Great Hall, leaving you behind. A heavy sense of dread settled over you as you watched them go.

Archie didn’t need long to find them. James and his friends were walking through the hallway just outside the Great Hall, laughing about something Sirius had said, completely unaware of the storm heading their way.

Without warning, Archie charged forward, grabbing James by the front of his robes and slamming him into the stone wall with a loud thud. The sound echoed through the hallway, silencing the students nearby who had been watching.

James let out a grunt of surprise, but before he could say anything, Archie’s fist connected with his jaw in a solid punch. James staggered against the wall, his hand flying to his face as he winced in pain.

“You think you can just mess with her like that?” Archie growled, pinning James to the wall again, his face inches from his. “You think you can just play with her feelings and walk away without a scratch?”

James blinked, still reeling from the punch, but when he met Archie’s eyes, there was no deflection or defense in his gaze. There was only guilt. “Archie, wait—”

“No, you don’t get to explain!” Archie spat, shoving him harder against the wall. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to her? You broke her!”

Sirius stepped forward, his eyes flashing angrily. “Oi, get your hands off him—”

But Leonard blocked Sirius’s path, his expression dark and uncharacteristically cold. “Back off, Black. He had this coming.”

“Look, mate, we didn’t mean for it to go this far,” Sirius said, trying to reason with Leonard, though his voice lacked sincerity. “It was just a stupid joke.”

Autumn, standing beside Florence, scoffed. “A joke? You think it’s a joke to toy with someone’s feelings? You think it’s funny to break someone’s heart?”

Remus, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice soft but firm. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, Archie. James didn’t mean—”

But Archie wasn’t listening. “I don’t care what he meant! He knew what he was doing. You all did. You think you can just play with people’s lives because you’re the Marauders, huh? Because you’re so damn popular?”

James, his cheek red from the punch, swallowed hard. “Archie… I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Shut up,” Archie snapped, pushing James harder against the wall. “You knew what you were doing. You used her for a dare—you made her believe she could trust you. That she could actually care about you. And you did it for what? A joke? To get Evans jealous?”

James opened his mouth, but no words came out. Guilt twisted in his gut, more painful than any punch could have been. He had no defense. No excuse.

“I didn’t mean to—” James started, but Archie cut him off, his voice growing colder.

“You did mean to. You knew exactly what you were doing. You toyed with her feelings and now you’re going to pay for it.”

James felt the weight of Archie’s words settle over him like a lead blanket. He hadn’t wanted it to go this far. He hadn’t wanted to hurt you—but that didn’t change the fact that he had.

Before the situation could escalate any further, the sharp, familiar voice of Professor McGonagall sliced through the crowd.

“Mr. Hatcher! Mr. Potter!”

Professor McGonagall strode into the hallway, her eyes blazing with fury as she took in the scene before her. James was pinned against the wall, blood trickling from the corner of his lip, Archie’s fist still clenched tightly in his robes.

“Step away from him, Mr. Hatcher,” she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Archie hesitated for only a moment before letting go of James with a sharp shove, stepping back but not taking his eyes off him.

McGonagall’s stern gaze moved between the two boys. “Would someone care to explain what, exactly, is going on here?”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Archie’s jaw was still clenched, his fists balled at his sides, and James simply wiped the blood from his mouth, his eyes cast downward. He didn’t even try to defend himself.

Seeing that no one was going to speak, McGonagall sighed, her lips thinning into a tight line. “Very well,” she said, her voice icy. “Since neither of you seem inclined to explain, you will both serve detention. One week. Starting tomorrow.”

James nodded, knowing he deserved far worse. Archie, however, still seemed on edge, his glare burning into James even as he stepped back.

McGonagall’s expression softened, if only slightly. “Now, all of you—back to class. This nonsense is over.”

The gathered students began to disperse, and McGonagall gave one last stern look at both boys before turning and walking away, her robes billowing behind her.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Archie took a step closer to James, his voice low but dripping with contempt. “Stay away from her, Potter. If you ever come near her again, I’ll make sure that punch is the least of your worries.”

Without another word, Archie, Leonard, Autumn, and Florence walked away, leaving James standing in the hallway, bruised and guilty.

Sirius, Remus, and Peter stood in stunned silence, unsure of what to say. But James just stood there, his back still against the wall, staring after Archie as the weight of his actions pressed down on him.

He had ruined everything.

The following days were unbearable. Everywhere James went, he could feel the tension. Students whispered about him as he passed, and the disapproving stares of his classmates burned into his back. But none of that hurt more than seeing you.

You had become a ghost in his world. You still smiled softly at your friends, still went to class like normal, but you never once looked his way. It was as if he no longer existed to you. And James hated himself for it.

It took him a while, but eventually, he gathered the courage to try and make things right. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He knew he didn’t deserve your forgiveness. But he had to try.

One afternoon, James found you in the library, sitting alone at one of the tables near the back. He approached slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. You were reading, your eyes scanning the page with an intensity that told him you were trying to ignore him even before he said anything.

“Y/N,” James said quietly, standing a few feet away from you.

You didn’t look up. “What do you want, James?”

He swallowed hard. “I just… I need to talk to you.”

You sighed, closing your book but still refusing to meet his eyes. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

James flinched at the coldness in your voice, but he forced himself to continue. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve messed up in a way that I’ll never be able to fix, but… I want to apologize.”

You remained silent, but your fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the book in your lap.

“I never meant for it to go this far,” he continued, his voice sincere. “It started as something stupid—something I regret more than you’ll ever know. I’ve thought about it every day since then. And I hate myself for it.”

Finally, you looked up, your expression filled with sadness and anger. “You didn’t think about how much it would hurt me, did you? You didn’t care that I might actually fall for you. That I might trust you.”

James shook his head. “I did care. I didn’t realize how much until it was too late. I’m sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to break your heart.”

James swallowed, the guilt weighing heavily on him. “I know. I’ll never be able to take back what I did, but… I want to make it right. Somehow.”

You shook your head slightly, your voice soft. “I don’t know if you can.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. James stood there, hoping for a sign, a flicker of something that would let him know he wasn’t too late. But you simply looked back down at your book, your walls firmly back in place.

James left the library that day feeling more hopeless than ever. But he wasn’t ready to give up. Over the next few days, he tried—small acts of kindness that he hoped would show you he was serious about making amends. He held doors open for you, left small notes of apology on your desk, and even helped you with your Potions homework from afar, making sure you had all the right ingredients laid out. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask for anything. He just wanted you to know he cared.

When you walked into class, your desk would be cleared of stray ink stains. A forgotten book would find its way back into your bag, or a note of apology would be slipped into your books. At first, you tried to ignore it all, but eventually, it became impossible to pretend you didn’t notice his efforts.

Despite everything, there was a part of you that still cared for James, a part of you that hated how much you missed the way things had been before the truth came out. It was that small part of you that made it harder to ignore him.

But you tried. You tried not to care. You tried to remind yourself of the hurt, the betrayal. You didn’t want to forgive him… but some days, you found yourself softening, despite everything.

James made sure to keep his distance, always careful to avoid Archie and the rest of your friends. If Archie found out that James was still trying to win back your trust, he’d make sure James regretted it. But James wasn’t doing this for anyone else anymore—not for Sirius, not for Lily. He was doing it for you, hoping that, one day, you might believe in him again.

It was a long process, and you weren’t ready to forgive him completely. But little by little, you began to see glimpses of the James Potter who wasn’t just a reckless boy trying to win a dare. He was something more than that—someone who was genuinely sorry for what he had done.

You still weren’t sure if you could ever fully trust him again. But maybe, just maybe, you could start to forgive him. One small step at a time.

It was a cool, crisp afternoon at Hogwarts, the autumn air biting softly at your skin as you climbed up the empty Quidditch stands. The Gryffindor team had finished their practice a while ago, leaving the pitch quiet, save for the rustling of leaves carried on the wind. You liked coming here after everyone had gone—there was a peace to the open sky and the vastness of the field that made everything else feel distant.

You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and settled into one of the seats, letting your eyes wander over the golden leaves scattered across the pitch. For a while, you just sat there, lost in thought, until the sound of someone clearing their throat snapped you out of your reverie.

“Mind if I sit?” James stood at the edge of the row, his broomstick in hand, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. His messy hair was windswept from practice, and there was a tentative smile on his face, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be near you.

Your heart gave a small jolt. You weren’t used to him being this hesitant around you. “Sure,” you replied softly, gesturing to the spot beside you.

He sat down carefully, leaving a bit of space between you, though the air around him still felt warm and familiar. For a few moments, the two of you sat in silence, both staring out at the empty field. The awkwardness between you was palpable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was more like the calm after a storm, when everything is still fragile, but quiet.

“You used to come to all our games,” James said after a while, his voice low, as though he was afraid of breaking the peace.

“I still do,” you replied, not looking at him. “I just... sit further back now.”

James winced, but nodded. “Yeah, I noticed. Haven’t seen you up close in a while.”

You glanced at him then, catching the way his eyes softened as he looked out at the field. The cocky confidence he’d worn like armor for so long was missing. In its place was something quieter, more genuine.

“I don’t blame you for keeping your distance,” he continued. “I deserve it.”

You hugged your knees closer to your chest, not responding at first. There was still an ache in your heart whenever you thought about what had happened, but the anger was flickering.

“Why do you care so much now?” you asked quietly, your voice almost lost in the wind. “Why are you trying so hard?”

James turned to you, his hazel eyes full of sincerity. “Because I care about you. Really care about you. And I don’t want to be the reason you’re hurt. Not anymore.”

The openness in his voice took you by surprise. You had seen James like this before, but only in fleeting moments. Now, it felt like the bravado had peeled away, leaving someone real beneath the surface.

“You weren’t like this before,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

“I know.” James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I thought I had to be... I don’t know, bigger than life all the time. Like I had to prove something to everyone, especially myself. I’m not proud of that. But you’ve always been real with me, and I wasn’t real with you.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the weight of betrayal as strongly. You felt a little lighter, like maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

“I’m not expecting you to forgive me all at once,” James added, his voice softer now. “But I want to show you that I can be better, for you."

You looked down at your hands, picking at the edge of your sleeve. “It’s just... hard. Trust doesn’t come back that easily, James.”

“I know,” he said, his voice a little rough. “But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and you could see how much he meant it. There was no smirk, no playful grin—just James, raw and honest. The boy who had been careless with your heart was trying to make amends, and for the first time, you felt like he truly understood the weight of what he’d done.

The wind ruffled his hair, and for a moment, you found yourself smiling softly at the familiar sight. “You’ve got ink on your face,” you said, pointing to a smudge near his temple.

James blinked, touching his face with a confused frown. “What—oh.” He chuckled lightly, his expression sheepish. “I guess I got a bit too into planning out that Transfiguration essay.”

You shook your head with a small laugh, the sound surprising both of you. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a tiny crack in the walls you’d built up.

James seemed to catch the change in your mood and his smile widened, though he didn’t press you further. He leaned back in the seat, his gaze shifting back to the field. “You ever flown before?”

“Once,” you said, shrugging. “I’m not really a fan of heights.”

James grinned, the old spark of mischief flickering in his eyes. “Well, if you ever feel like giving it another go, I’m pretty good at keeping people safe on a broom.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, like an old friendship slowly knitting itself back together. You weren’t sure where things would go from here, but for now, sitting here with James felt... nice.

And maybe that was enough for today.

It had taken weeks to come to a decision. Every day, you had wrestled with the memory of what James had done, how he had played with your heart like it was a game. But, as time went on, you couldn't ignore the fact that James had been trying, truly trying, to make things right. You could see it in the way he no longer sought attention, the way he was quietly helping without expecting anything in return.

Forgiveness was hard, but holding onto anger was harder. And you were tired—tired of the pain, tired of feeling like you were carrying a weight that wouldn’t let go. So, with shaky hands and a racing heart, you left a note on James’s desk:

Meet me by the Black Lake at sunset.

You didn’t write more, unsure how you would feel when the moment came. All you knew was that you had to give him—and yourself—a chance.

When James found the note, his heart nearly stopped. He read it over and over, as if afraid it might disappear before his eyes. You wanted to meet him. His mind raced, a thousand possibilities flickering through his head—was this the moment he had been waiting for? Or was it a final goodbye?

His hands trembled as he pocketed the note, trying to calm himself. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but for the first time in weeks, a spark of hope flickered in his chest.

As sunset approached, James made his way to the Black Lake, his nerves twisting with every step. And there you were, standing by the water’s edge, your arms wrapped around yourself, lost in thought as you watched the gentle ripples on the surface.

James’s heart skipped a beat. You were beautiful in the fading light, and for a moment, he simply stood there, watching you, gathering the courage to approach.

Finally, he took a breath and stepped forward. “Y/N.”

You turned, your eyes meeting his, he could see the conflict in your gaze—the hurt that still lingered, but also the kindness that had always been part of you.

You took a deep breath, glancing out at the lake before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking a lot, James. About everything. About how much I was hurt… but also about how you’ve changed.”

James stayed silent, afraid to interrupt, afraid to break the fragile moment you were sharing.

“I’m might be angry,” you admitted, your voice steady. “But I don’t want to hold onto that forever. I don’t want to carry this weight anymore.”

James looked down, his heart heavy with the guilt of everything he had put you through. “I know I hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with regret. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but… I swear, Y/N, I would do anything to fix this.”

You turned to face him fully, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know if things will ever be the same, James. But I want to try. I want to give you a chance… to prove that this isn’t just another game.”

James’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean… you’re giving me another chance?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes. But it’s not going to be easy, James. Trust takes time to rebuild.”

For a moment, James stood frozen, processing your words. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch was warm, and careful, like he was afraid you might pull away. He gazed into your eyes, his own filled with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I swear to you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I will never, ever hurt you like that again. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m worth trusting. I promise.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the warmth of his hands on your cheeks grounding you as your heart fluttered in your chest. You could feel the truth in his words, the genuine regret and longing behind them. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

Slowly, almost instinctively, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the tension between you melted away. When you opened your eyes again, James was still watching you, his gaze filled with hope and affection.

For a moment, everything felt right. You were standing by the lake, the world around you peaceful and quiet, and for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to feel that flicker of warmth you had tried so hard to ignore.

But just as you thought things might finally fall into place, a voice cut through the serene air like a blade.

“What the hell is this?”

Your heart dropped as you turned to see Archie storming toward you, his face twisted in anger. He had seen you together. James dropped his hands from your face, stepping back, but Archie was already closing the distance between you.

“Y/N, get out of the way,” Archie growled, his eyes locked on James. “I’m not letting him get away with this again.”

“You’ve got some nerve, Potter,” Archie growled, his fists clenched as he glared at James. “What did I tell you? You think you can just worm your way back into her life after what you did?”

James didn’t fight back, his hands raised in defense. “Archie, I swear, it’s not like that. I’m not trying to hurt her.”

“Not trying to hurt her?” Archie spat, his voice rising. “You’ve already done enough damage!”

“Archie, stop!” you shouted, stepping between them before Archie could throw a punch. You placed a hand on his chest, trying to push him back. “Please, just listen to me.”

Archie looked down at you, his face still twisted with anger. “Y/N, why are you defending him? After everything he did?”

“I know what he did,” you said firmly, your voice steady. “But he’s changed, Archie. He’s been trying—really trying—to make things right.”

Archie shook his head, his fists still balled. “And you believe him? After all that?”

You took a deep breath, your eyes locked on Archie’s. “Yes. I believe him. I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.”

Archie’s jaw clenched, his fists still balled at his sides. “And what if you’re wrong? What if he breaks your heart all over again?”

You shook your head, your voice steady. “He won’t. I know he won’t.”

For a long moment, Archie said nothing, his chest rising and falling with deep, angry breaths. He looked between you and James, his jaw tight, clearly torn between wanting to protect you and the growing frustration of watching you forgive James.

Finally, Archie exhaled sharply, stepping back and dropping his fists. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “But if he so much as looks at you the wrong way—”

“I know,” you interrupted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll beat him to a pulp.”

Archie gave James one last threatening glare before turning back to you. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I will be,” you said, looking back at James, who stood there, relief flooding his features. “I will be.”

Archie sighed, running a hand through his hair before turning to walk away, muttering something under his breath about "keeping an eye on Potter." As he disappeared into the distance, you turned back to James, who was still watching you with a mixture of gratitude and awe.

“Thank you,” James said softly, stepping closer to you once more. “I don’t deserve it, but thank you.”

You smiled up at him, the warmth of his presence calming the nervous flutter in your chest. “Just don’t make me regret it, Potter.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice filled with sincerity. And this time, you believed him.

It had been a few days since the Black Lake, since that quiet moment where you'd taken the first step toward forgiving James. You hadn’t fully worked through everything yet, but the weight on your chest had lightened, if only slightly. James, true to his word, had been patient. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding more than you were ready to give.

One evening, after dinner, you found yourself sitting by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, enjoying the warmth while trying to focus on your Herbology notes. You had just managed to start working through a particularly tricky chapter when a shadow fell over your table.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said softly.

You looked up and saw James standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression almost shy. It was a look you were still getting used to—the quiet James, the one without the cocky grin and the easy swagger. The one who didn’t assume you’d always want to talk to him.

“Hi,” you replied, offering a small smile.

He rocked slightly on his heels, glancing around the common room before returning his gaze to you. “I was wondering if… maybe you’d like to go for a walk?”

A walk? It seemed harmless enough. And you had to admit, the idea of stepping out into the cool night air sounded appealing after being cooped up with your books for hours.

You nodded, closing your notes. “Sure.”

James blinked in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected you to say yes. But he quickly recovered, grinning in that soft, hopeful way he had started to smile recently. “Great. Let’s go.”

You followed him out of the common room, the portrait of the Fat Lady swinging closed behind you as the castle corridors opened up before you. The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, your footsteps echoing off the stone floors.

The evening was quiet, with most students settling in for the night. When you reached the castle doors, James paused, opening one of them and holding it for you. The cold air rushed in, crisp and clean, carrying the scent of grass and earth. You stepped outside, feeling the refreshing chill against your skin, and James fell into step beside you as you wandered down the path that led toward the Black Lake.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the water. The stars twinkled like distant diamonds, and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze made the night feel alive with gentle magic. It was peaceful here, under the sky, with the world around you so calm.

James cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You know… I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, glancing over at you. “Being able to just… be with you.”

You looked at him, noticing how the moonlight softened his features. His eyes, normally so full of mischief, were now earnest, searching yours for some kind of reassurance.

“I’ve missed it too,” you admitted, surprising even yourself. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed these moments, before everything had fallen apart—when James was just a boy who made you laugh, who listened to you, who made you feel seen.

James smiled, but it wasn’t his usual grin—it was softer, more thoughtful. “I know things aren’t the same,” he said, kicking a pebble with the tip of his shoe as you both walked. “And I know I’ve got a long way to go before… before you can really trust me again. But I’m going to keep trying. Every day, I’m going to keep trying.”

There was something about the way he said it that made your heart swell—this wasn’t the cocky, arrogant James who once thought he could charm his way through life. This was the James who was willing to work for it, who understood that he had to earn your trust back, one small step at a time.

“I appreciate that,” you said softly, your gaze drifting over the calm surface of the lake. “I really do.”

For a while, you both fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. It was nice—just walking together, the cool night air wrapping around you both. You weren’t sure what it was, but something about this moment felt right. Maybe you weren’t fully healed yet, but you were beginning to believe that healing was possible.

After a few more minutes of walking, James stopped, turning to face you with a look of hesitant curiosity. “Can I ask you something?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends what it is.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “It’s not bad, I promise. I just… I was wondering if—if maybe you’d like to come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. He had asked it so simply, without any of his usual flair. It wasn’t a demand or an assumption. It was just a question—a genuine one, filled with hope but no expectation.

“You don’t have to say yes,” James added quickly, seeing the hesitation in your eyes. “I know things are still… complicated. But I’d love to spend some time with you outside of… all this.”

You thought about it for a moment. You weren’t sure if you were ready for anything that felt like a date—not yet. But Hogsmeade was harmless, wasn’t it? A day out, something simple, something that could help rebuild the trust you were slowly finding again.

After a moment, you nodded. “Sure,”

James’ face lit up, his eyes widening in surprise. “Really?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. “Really.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded, feeling a strange flutter in your stomach. You weren’t sure what was going to happen, or where this new path with James would lead. But for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—it was worth finding out.

As you continued walking beside him, the moonlight casting gentle shadows across the path, you realized that this moment, right here, was a beginning. Not a fresh start, but a continuation—something that had been broken but was slowly, carefully, being put back together.

And maybe, just maybe, you could learn to trust James again.

One small step at a time.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Honey, I’m Home-!

Sirius Black x Mom! Reader

Ever since Sirius was sent to Azkaban, you were the one in charge of raising Harry. Doing your best, and lucky to have Remus to help. Because of that, a certain Rat wasn’t able to avoid any of your gazes. When Harry’s third year came to a end, you were given quite a surprise at the train station

Warnings 18+, P in V, Female Reader, high emotions, hurt comfort, fluffy and heated sex, getting back together, implied breeding kink, taking care of your man with baths food and you, sir this bed is about to be destroyed with how hard he’s going to rail you. Also, implied Wolfstar/ Remus x You/Poly situation deal up in here hehehehe

“Harry-!” You called, with a smile. Always there to pick him up from the station, every single time. As a good parent would. Ever since you found out he had such a risk to end up at the Dursleys, like hell you would let that happen. Made you pamper him a bit, given your good friends lost their lives for him. But like hell he didn’t deserve it.

“Shhh shh-!” Harry was soon hushing his friends, leaving you confused. Hermione and Ron quick to hush up, while Remus would set the last of the bags off the train. Wanting to help out, since there were so many Weasleys to worry about. The way he smiled, you were even more curious. You couldn’t recall the last time he looked so relieved. Was there a change in laws that permitted him to work at Hogwarts?

“Children, settle down. Settle down. Go on and show her the surprise.” He teases them, as he would help Molly with the rest of the Weasleys. He threw you a wink, which had you very confused. Not what did that Marauder have in mind this time?

“Mum…..Can we get a dog?” Harry asked you, as the trio stood next to each other. With cuts and bruises all over, but smiling. Even Ron seemed chipper, despite the fact he was in crutch. The hell did those three get into this time?

“A dog-? Harry….You know why we can’t get a dog.” You sighed, not wanting to have this discussion again. With out Sirius, you just couldn’t. Any dog was to painful of a reminder. Oh how you miss your padfoot. What you would give to see him again.

“Mum, please? He’s got no where else to go. Just look at him-“ Harry pleaded, as the trio stepped aside. The dog now exposed to you. Was so painfully skinny, yet also so furry at the same time. Matted fur, and just looking like a grim. He looked so much like Sirius, but so dead as well. Your heart just couldn’t say no this time.

The defeated sigh had them cheer, as Remus returned. Still giving you this coy smile, that had you furrow your brows. You felt like you were missing something, but you didn’t know what. You just knew that it was time to take everyone home.

With Harry hugging his friends goodbye, while this new dog stuck close to your legs, Remus would catch up quickly with Molly. Explaining something. You swore it was about Scabbers, but the new playmate was keeping your attention. Suddenly jumping on you, and licking your face.

“ACK-! HEEL HEEL-!” You called, as the dog was just to strong. How was something so fragile so durable? Reminded you of Sirius. How even in his dog form he was able to tackle people down. Was just making your heart hurt more, which in a morbid sense made you unable to refuse the dog either.

“Mum, Uncle Remus said you should head home with our new dog. He needs me to stay here and catch Mrs. Weasley up on stuff.” The way he fidgeted with his glasses told you it was a mixture of a lie and some truths. What the hell were these people planning? Was this some scheme to help you move on? Accept Sirius was never coming back? That hurt, but also a point was made. Who can escape Azkaban?

“Alright. But be home before dark.” You warned, as you kissed his forehead. Right on his scar, which made him smile. He made sure to give you a hug, before quickly returning to the red heads. Poor Molly looked ready to faint. Make that she did, and the twins had to catch her. Yeah, like hell you wanted to be involved with that.

“Alright, let’s-“ But the dog was running. Right through the wall, with no hesitation. You were flabbergasted, but had no time to think. Harry’s new dog was running off. No way you wanted his poor heart broken over that. So, you ran after it. Trying to catch up, but it seemed high on life.

“GET BACK HERE-!” You hollered, as the dog was running like it was the last thing it could ever do. You were so focused on trying to catch up to it, you barely noticed where you were running towards. By the time you finally caught up, you were wheezing. Hands on your knees, as the door the dog stopped at opened.

“About time Master and Mistress Black returned.” Kreacher sneered, as the dog hurried inside. Did he say what you think he said? No way. That can’t be Sirius. No way in hell. Looks like him, but he’s in Azkaban. You don’t just escape Azkaban. Sure, the daily prophet said he did. But it was more than likely gossip gone wild. You swore every week they said someone did, only for them to be returned the next day.

“Kreacher, phew, give me a minute here.” You coughed, as you stumbled inside. Left for the building to vanish, in the early morning fog. As if it was never there. Leaving you to be alone, with the elf and dog, as you hung up your coat.

You did your best with making the home more live able. The spare rooms built for whenever Harry wanted friends over for the summers. Along with just a safe haven for friends in need of a stay. You turned what was once a cage, into a proper home. Seemed the dog loved it, as it was quick to run up the stairs. Bolting past the curtained painting, and straight to your bedroom.

“How does it….No. no this can’t be. No way…” It was starting to become harder to deny, as you walked up the stairs. By the time you reached the door, you heard it. That familiar eerie bone cracking, when a animagus was changing forms. No way. It couldn’t be. It can’t-

“Home sweet home-“ That gruff voice sung to you, as you opened the door. There he was. Your husband. Your world. Your everything. Standing there, bending his back, as he sported a tattered Azkaban uniform. Bloody, dirty, hardly clothing at all. Hair a mangled mess, and in desempate need of a bath and shave. He was so sickly thin, the very thin fabric was just a sheet on him. Hardly could process it, when those dark eyes locked on yours. Hair so long now, and body tattered. No matter the design, it was still him. Your Sirius.

“Hardly changed a day…” He dreamily said, with that exhausted smile. He was so drained, but you could still see the pure joy in his eyes. He was home. He was with you, and could be there for Harry now. His best friend Remus was in his life again. He’s not in that damn prison, and he’s in your sight once more.

You didn’t care about the grime, as you practically fell into his arms. Sobbing in joy, as he held you close. Despite his thinner structure, he was able to hold you tightly. As tightly as he could, and sway with you. No need for words. Just gentle tears.

That was why Remus was so coy, and why Harry had you two run off. You two needed time to reconnect. Even so young, Harry could grasp how important this was. Guess you were rasing him right. Seemed also that Kreacher might have missed Sirius as well, because you could hear a bath being run. No one asked for it, but he did it. His own free choice. He missed him, in his own way.

“Darling, I love you so much. I really do, but I am so fucking gross right now. You know I’m being honest when even I’m unable to handle my own stink. I’ve had sex with Moony under a full moon. I’m GROSS gross right now. I will kill for a bath-“ He went on, making you just laugh with your tears. Despite the years in such a horrific prison, he was still himself. Guess he was always a little insane.

You didn’t let him go an inch, as you trailed after him to the bathroom. More than happy to help him wash. Just enjoying the needed intimate moment. Just a wife, washing her husband. By god was he filthy. By the time Harry and Remus returned, he was finally drying off. You had no idea if the bathtub will ever recover. Least he was now in his favorite black robe.

“I’ve got dinner handled, don’t worry-!” Remus called, as Sirius would come down the stairs with you. Unable to let go of his arm, and he hardly complained. He missed your touch all the same, as you two would enter the dinning room. Where Harry sat.

“Guess we better start from the beginning.” Harry murmured. You had already gotten used to your son’s insane adventures, but this one took the cake. He got his god father out of Azkaban, somehow-? Yeah, you were sitting down for this. Mindlessly playing with the exposed chest hair you could grab, as the trio of misfits began to explain.

Even while eating, more like Sirius devouring anything in sight, there was so much to discuss. Was mostly Remus, and Harry, speaking. Given Sirius was more so busy hiding during that time frame. Oh how your heart had broken, and repaired, over and over from it all. Your poor husband. But, he’s back now. He’s back, and he’s never leaving you again.

“I know you are my god father and all, but….Do I call you dad now-?” Harry asked. He’s thirteen, still a child after all. It’s going to be a lot to process, even by Wizard standards. With his meal finished, Sirius did have to think a moment. Dispite the fact Harry knew Sirius from stories, because of you and Remus, he was still a stranger after all.

“Uncle Padfoot will work just fine.” He smiled, as he ruffled Harry’s hair. That made the young teen give an awkward grin, as there was something to work with now. Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot. It’s a start, and you couldn’t be happier. Just staring with such love to him, with your head on his shoulder. Taking in that scent, as Remus was unable to stop his smile to.

“Harry, dear, why don’t we go out for a walk. Hm?” Remus asked him, making the boy raise a brow. Why would he want to….Oh. Right. Remus would give a gentle head nudge towards the door, and Harry was quick to get the message. Grabbing his jacket, wand, and chasing after his uncle. Not wanting to say another word, as he really rather not think about his mother’s sex life. Even if it’s with his god father.

The second the door closed, you were yanked from your chair. You gave a squeak, as you were tossed over his shoulder. Just like the old days at school. Whenever he wanted your attention, he simply tossed you over his shoulder. Forcing you to pay attention to him, as he would steal you to a private room for a discussion.

“I’m not letting you out of that bed until the head board breaks-“ He warned, as that had your heart racing. Twelve years is a long time, and there was most certainly some catching up to do. You couldn’t deny that, as you watch the stairs trail behind him. Escorting you to your once shared bedroom. Now together again.

You were plopped right on the bed, and he was on you like the hungry dog he was. Stealing you into his lips, and you couldn’t stop your moaning. It had been so long. You needed him as badly as he needed you. How you were enjoying the new long hair, and tangling your fingers into it. Needing as much skin as you could get from him.

He was more than happy to give it to you. The robe thrown aside, as he was pulling at your clothes. Not giving damn if they tore. Nothing else mattered in this moment. He wanted to fuck his wife, and by god was he going to. Twelve years, in Azkaban. He’s going to get all twelve years of pent up desire out in one night. Will your body recover? Do you even care?

“Sirius-“ You sighed, as he finally got your top off. His face buried into your chest, as he snapped your bra strap off. Tossing it aside, as he drank you up. Just feeling your skin on his, and savoring the long missed flesh against his bearded face. Feeling that freshly softened hair on your chest felt so good. Every single fiber of your existence was on fire. Felt like you might implode.

“Not a day passed by, that I wasn’t thinking of you. You, Remus, Harry, you three were what kept me sane. I knew you three were safe with each other. Waiting for me. I came back. I came back, like I promised.” He sighed, as you felt the tears on your chest. Gentle fingers played with his hair, as to try and calm him down. Comforting him.

“I always knew you would.” You felt so silly thinking Remus would ever try and help you move on. Hypocrite he would have been. Human emotions be human emotions, and they were being carnal right now. Needing to burn and burn and burn.

“Have me again, like you’ve had me before.” You asked him, as you cupped his face. Having that thick beard nuzzle into your palm, as those dark eyes stared up to yours. So much pain in his face, but comfort in his eyes. It’s a long journey to recover, but his soul was still there. His body is damaged, but a body can repair. A mind is harder, and that was the battle. A battle he won.

With a kiss to your palm, he would soon attack your lips. Growling into you, as he pulled away the rest of your clothes. Needing to devour your body. Soon marking away at your neck, your chest, your arms. If there was anything his lips could grasp, and making sure you were marked. As if to remind the world you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Not anymore.

“Sirius, how can you still be such a tease?” You whined, as he was grazing his teeth over your thigh. Leaving a bite on your flesh. Letting himself enjoy the flavor of the tingling flesh under his tongue.

“What? I’m an old dog. Old dogs have bad habits.” He teased, before he finally allowed you to get some attention. He really didn’t change, and you were shocked. Never thought being abused could be useful. Only a Black would have such a morbid survival skill.

Before any more depressing thoughts could fill your head, you were able to enjoy the familiar sight. Your husband between your legs, with his cock rubbing against you. The tip of his cock coming into view, whenever he rolled his hips up and down. Rubbing right on your clit, and making you whimper. Sure you’ve played with yourself, but nothing beats his touch.

You both were gripping tightly. Him on your thighs, while you grabbed his shoulders. Needing to feel him in your hands. You both needed it so badly, but both held a near fear. As if afraid that it was all a dream. Luckily, he had the nerve to test that fear. Test it, as he finally pushed in.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this-“ He moaned, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. The way he growled, and his body just shivered. Aching, and moaning. Might spill just then, if he didn’t stop. Just savoring the feeling of being back inside of you, and how your eyes watered from pure comfort. To have your husband back.

He would lean down, and kiss away your tears, before he allowed himself to move. Just moaning for you, as his nails dug into your flesh. Marking you more, as you moaned into each others mouths. Needing to drink in every last thing you both could offer. So much to catch up on, and to make up for.

With the tender moment passing, you were soon reminded of the wild man you married. The feeling of your legs being pushed towards your shoulders, as he tried to get into you deeper. With his hands now on your ankles, as he was snapping his hips into yours. Needing to make sure you felt ever inch of him.

You loved it, and missed it, all. The feeling of your arms around his neck, and tangling your fingers into his hair. How he growled into you, and the snarls. Oh how you loved how animalistic he was for you. How he would bark and howl at the beg and call to you. Your big bad wolf.

It was all you missed. Had you in a mixture of tears, and pure desire. How he wanted to fight your tears, and kissed you. As heated as he could, to make up for the years parted. To taste you, and savor you all over again. Just the sounds of your moans, the creaking bed, and the flesh on flesh.

You didn’t know how long it lasted, but you felt him pull your lip. Sinking his teeth into it. A typical sign that he was close. A need to ground himself, to last a little longer. Oh how you missed his little habits. That thrill of pain again sent you over, as you came with him. To be as connected as possible.

You expected to get a moment to savor the after glow, but he kept true to his word. You were soon tossed onto your stomach, with the ass in the air. Of course he wanted doggy. It’s cheesey, but a favorite. Suppose one more round could be mustered.

One more became two, and three, and soon you had to chug a Pepper Up potion to keep up. You lost track of the rounds, before you were laid on your back. Soaked in sweat, and sticky from it all. Sheets hardly on the bed, and you were certain there were cracks in the wood. Hardly could breathe, but it seemed he was satisfied.

“Pretty sure you fucked a dozen kids into me.” You wheezed, as he chuckled. Enjoying a much needed cigarette, but still making sure you were comforted. Having your head in his lap, as he played with your face. Admiring all your features.

“Good.” He snickered, as you swatted at his hand. The both of you able to share a laugh, as there was a soft knock at the door. All Sirius had to do was give a sniff in the air, and he knew who it was. A whistle was given, before he grabbed a pillow for you. So you could cover up, despite the fact Remus has certainly saw you naked many times.

“Feeling better now-? Could have used a silencing charm. Had to tell Harry Kreacher was fixing a wardrobe.” Remus scoffed, with a tray of needed drinks and snacks. He would set it down on the bed side table, before joining on the bed. He deserved to catch up with Sirius to. Fine by you.

With some shifting, you were soon snuggled between the two men. Sirius still playing with your hair, as the two men remained sitting up. Keeping their voices low, so you could drift. Just able to be safe, and warm, again. Snuggling your husband, and comforted by the sound of old memories.

What a wonderful lullaby.

[rottenfyre]

𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰.

The door opened without a knock, and in strode your eldest son, Aegon. His expression was one of barely contained fury, his mouth set in a hard line. He wore the black and red of his house, his silver hair shining in the light.

You didn’t rise or greet him formally. Instead, you took a slow sip of your wine, watching him like a cat watches a mouse caught in a trap.

“Mother,” he said, his voice sharp and clipped.

“Aegon,” you replied coolly, setting your goblet down with a faint clink. “Come, sit. You look as if you’ve been chewing on a sour lemon.”

Aegon’s nostrils flared slightly as he sat across from you. His jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched into fists.

“What did he do this time? Has your father’s wisdom left you choking on your own tongue?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not wisdom he’s choking on. He’s a fool if he thinks Rhaenyra’s claim will hold this kingdom together. He’s determined to throw it all to the wolves. And for what? His precious daughter?”

Aegon slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair, the wood creaking under the pressure. “He still insists on keeping Rhaenyra as his heir,” he spat, his voice brimming with frustration. “Despite all the signs—despite the whispers in the court, despite the tension between the lords—he clings to this foolish notion that she will unite the realm.”

You tilted your head, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Ah, the great dreamer, your father. One might think he’s convinced himself he lives in one of his old songs about gallant knights and wise queens.”

“Dreams,” Aegon spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he stalked toward the window, glaring out at the city below. “Dreams won’t stop the realm from tearing itself apart. His stubbornness is going to ruin us all.”

You arched an eyebrow and tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Tell me, my dear, what’s worse: a king who refuses to see reason or a son who insists on treating every disagreement like a declaration of war?”

“I need to act, Mother,” Aegon growled. “The realm is on the verge of breaking apart, and he’s too blind to see it.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your fingers. “And how do you propose to fix this? Drag him from his throne by the scruff of his neck? That would be quite a sight.”

He glared at you, though there was no real malice in his eyes. “This isn’t a jest.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you replied smoothly. “But sometimes, my son, the truth is so absurd that the only thing left to do is laugh.”

Aegon’s eyes snapped back to you, sharp as daggers. “I am declaring war,” he said, his tone dangerous. “War on stupidity. Father is leaving our family vulnerable. The lords see weakness, and weakness is blood in the water. They will turn on us the moment Rhaenyra takes the throne.”

You laughed softly, amused by his intensity. “Oh, Aegon. Always so dramatic.” You paused, giving him a pointed look. “You think the lords will rise for her? The only thing these men rise for is power. Offer them that, and they will forget who was promised what. It’s always the same song, my son. Play the right tune, and they will dance to your music.”

Aegon clenched his fists at his sides, the tension rolling off him in waves. “The music won’t matter if Father continues to shield her with his blind loyalty. He treats her like she’s untouchable, like the gods themselves have chosen her to rule.”

“Ah, yes, the gods,” you said dryly, waving a dismissive hand. “A convenient excuse for poor decision-making. If we all did what the gods wanted, we’d be living in rags and begging for scraps. No, Aegon, the gods don’t care for the affairs of men. This game, this fight for the throne—it belongs to us. It always has.”

Aegon paced in front of you, his mind racing. “And yet, here I am, watching as the realm slips through my fingers because my father insists on upholding his dying legacy. Rhaenyra is weakness. She’ll tear the kingdom apart the moment she’s crowned, and he refuses to see it.”

“Your father has always been a romantic at heart,” you said with a sigh. “He’s clinging to the idea that love and family will prevail over politics. A fool’s hope, if ever there was one.”

“Fool,” Aegon muttered under his breath, his frustration clear.

You regarded him with a look that was equal parts admiration and exasperation. “Just as I expected,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Aegon furrowed his brow. “What?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I'm just proud of my son. Ruthless, cold, but oh so clever.”

He blinked, unsure if you were complimenting him or insulting him.

You leaned back, your voice turning serious now. “Aegon, you have ambition, that much is clear. And yes, your father’s decision may well lead to war. But wars are not won by anger and frustration. They are won by strategy, by waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Aegon said through gritted teeth. “If we delay, we will lose support. The longer Rhaenyra remains the heir, the more dangerous she becomes.”

You smirked. “Dangerous? Rhaenyra? The woman has more soft edges than the pillows on my bed.”

“She’s dangerous because of the people around her,” Aegon snapped. “Daemon, Corlys, and all those who would see her on the throne. They will turn the realm against us.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Daemon is certainly a problem. And Corlys…well, his stupidity is only matched by his ego. But you are right. The lords will not stay loyal to Rhaenyra for long if they sense weakness.”

Aegon looked at you, his eyes sharp and determined. “Then we need to act.”

You held up a hand. “Calm yourself, boy. This isn’t a tavern brawl. You must act carefully, deliberately. There’s a difference between being strong and being reckless. Don’t be such a child about it.”

Aegon’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I’m not a child.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Then stop acting like one, stamping your feet because your father won’t do as you wish. He won’t change his mind, Aegon. He’s too proud and too stubborn, just like you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “Listen, Aegon. I raised you to be a ruler, not a brute. You must understand the importance of timing. Your father will not change his mind easily, but he is not your true enemy. The lords, the people—they are the ones you must win over.”

“And what would you have me do, Mother?”

You gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “You show them that you are the only one who can protect them. You play the part of the dutiful son, for now. Let your father continue with his dream. But when the time comes—and it will come—you make sure the realm sees you as the only viable option. The lords are like sheep. They will follow the strongest shepherd.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels in his mind turning. “I can steady it,”

You smiled. “I know. And you will. But you have to be patient. Anger makes for terrible decisions.”

“I have no patience left for Father’s foolishness,” Aegon muttered.

“Then let him be foolish,” you replied coolly. “Let him play his hand. And when the time is right, we’ll play ours.”

“And what if the time never comes?” Aegon asked, his voice low, full of doubt.

You smiled, leaning back once more. “Oh, it will. It always does.”

Aegon stood there for a moment, visibly wrestling with himself, before he let out a long breath and sat down across from you. “You’ve always had more faith in my future than I have.”

“I trained you for this, didn’t I?” you said dryly. “I didn’t raise a fool. Nor did I raise a man who lets his temper dictate his choices. You should know that the moment you act out of rage, you’ve already lost.”

Aegon’s lips twitched, the tension in the room easing slightly. “So, I’m to be the calm one, while everyone else runs around like fools?”

“You are to be the calm storm,” you corrected. “Let them think you’re passive, let them underestimate you. The realm is full of fools, but we are not among them.”

Aegon finally allowed himself a small, grim smile. “You’re far more ruthless than anyone may think, Mother.”

You raised your goblet in a mock toast. “I take that as a compliment.”

He nodded, his resolve clearly strengthening. “I’ll bide my time, then. But when the time comes—”

“When the time comes,” you interrupted smoothly, “you’ll be ready. And the realm will kneel to you, as it should.”

Aegon stood, the weight of your words settling comfortably on his shoulders. “I’ll see to it.”

You watched him head toward the door, then called after him. “Aegon.”

He paused, glancing back at you.

“Don’t be afraid to smile,” you added with a wicked smirk. “It unsettles people when a king looks like he’s already won.”

Aegon chuckled, a rare sound, but one that left the room with more tension released than when he’d entered.

As he left, you leaned back in your chair, sipping your wine and staring out the window again. The game had been in motion for years, and your son had finally learned how to play it.

“Well,” you murmured to yourself, “this should be interesting.”

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 5

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[solxamber]

This is Love - Riddle Rosehearts x reader

3 times he notices your acts of love and realizes it doesn't have to be grand and overdramatic like the movies, it could just be like this– sweet and considerate.

crossposted from my ao3!

You’re not speaking to him. He knows why, of course—Riddle's temper had gotten the better of him again. Another argument, another set of rules he enforced too strictly, and this time you’d had enough. He had heard the bite in your words, the frustration lacing every syllable when you told him to “loosen up.”

And yet, despite the tension still simmering in the room, Riddle can’t relax. His back is stiff as he stares at the ceiling, hands clenched under the covers. He doesn't want to admit it, but the silence bothers him. It gnaws at him, the guilt festering. He can feel your presence beside him, but the distance between you feels like a canyon.

How could he have let things escalate like this?

He hears you sigh—sharp, frustrated—and then there's a shift in the blankets. For a second, he’s certain you’ll turn away from him, shutting him out entirely. It’s what he deserves, after all. But instead, something surprising happens.

Your arm. Wrapping around his waist. Gently, deliberately, like it always does before he falls asleep.

Riddle stiffens at first, completely taken aback. His mind races, wondering if this is a trick or just muscle memory. He doesn’t dare breathe. His heart is in his throat. You pull him closer and press a kiss to his hair.

Why are you…? After everything, you still…?

He feels the warmth of your touch seep into his skin, and slowly, so slowly, his rigid posture begins to relax. His breath comes out shakily, and though his pride won’t let him say it out loud, he’s grateful. It’s your way of telling him you’re still angry, but you love him. You always do.

And with that, sleep finally finds him, nestled in the comfort of your embrace.

The cold is biting today, and Riddle feels it in his bones. He’s leaving class with you, rubbing his arms discreetly as he walks. His uniform is meant to be formal and pristine, not warm, and his stubbornness refuses to let him complain. Still, he knows you’ve noticed.

Of course you’ve noticed.

“Riddle,” your voice breaks the quiet as you hurry to catch up with him. He doesn’t even look at you, still feeling the lingering embarrassment from earlier in class.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” he insists, his words clipped and precise. But the truth is, he’s shivering. His hands are numb. He’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers, and you can see it all over his face, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

In a swift motion, before he can protest, you slip off your jacket and drape it over his shoulders. Riddle freezes—literally and figuratively.

“W-what are you—”

“Take my jacket,” you say casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I can’t have the Housewarden of Heartslabyul freezing to death.”

The words hit him harder than he expects. His cheeks flame bright red, matching the tips of his ears, and he’s torn between protesting and basking in the warmth your jacket provides. It smells like you, like comfort, and he’s mortified by how much he likes it.

“...Thank you,” he mutters, barely audible, but the soft smile on your face tells him you heard him loud and clear. He tugs the jacket tighter around himself, both embarrassed and… a little touched. Maybe more than a little.

It’s late. Too late. Riddle’s been up for hours, drowning in paperwork and assignments, his brain on the verge of collapse. He’s so exhausted that even the numbers on the page are starting to blur together. Just a few more pages. He can finish this. He can—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, he’s sitting at his desk, half-writing, half-dreaming, and the next, he wakes up with his face smushed against his textbook. His eyes flutter open groggily, his neck aching from the awkward angle.

Great. This will set him back for the entire day.

He blinks, trying to shake off the fog of sleep, and looks down at the stack of papers on his desk. The assignments are… finished? Every single one of them.

Riddle frowns. There’s no way he did all this. Is there?

“When did I finish this?” he mutters to himself, flipping through the pages. The handwriting is… definitely not his.

“You didn’t,” you say from the bed, voice casual as you scroll through your phone.

Riddle stares at you, wide-eyed and confused. “What?”

“You were practically dead on your feet, Riddle. I finished it for you.”

He’s too shocked to respond at first. His heart races, a mix of disbelief and something else—something soft, unfamiliar. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process the way his chest feels tight, but in a good way.

“You… shouldn’t have done that,” he says weakly, though the words don’t carry any real conviction. He’s already skimming through the assignments, seeing how you’d matched his usual style of work almost perfectly.

You just shrug, grinning lazily. “Yeah, well. I wanted to.”

And there it is again—that warmth. The same feeling he got when you held him during the argument, or when you handed him your jacket. It’s starting to become more familiar, more difficult to ignore. His heart does a funny little flip in his chest as he stares at the completed work, then back at you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice so quiet he almost hopes you didn’t hear it.

But, of course, you did. You always do.

Riddle's never been great at expressing feelings that aren't tied to logic or rules. Love is messy and complicated, the kind of thing that doesn't fit neatly into the boxes he's carefully organized his life around. But there are moments—like when you wrap your arms around him after a fight, or when you lend him your jacket, or when you finish his assignments without a second thought—that make him wonder if maybe love isn’t supposed to fit into a box at all.

Maybe it’s supposed to be messy.

As he lies next to you in bed that night, your breathing steady and peaceful beside him, he finds himself unable to sleep. He keeps thinking about everything you do for him, the way you make his rigid, rule-bound world feel just a little more flexible.

“I love you,” he whispers into the quiet of the room, his voice barely audible.

You stir beside him, half-asleep, your arm lazily draping over his waist. “Love you too,” you murmur back, voice soft and groggy.

Riddle feels a weight lift off his chest, something warm and sweet settling in its place. He closes his eyes, smiling into the darkness, and for once, he falls asleep with no worries at all. Maybe this is love.

Masterlist

[bvidzsoo]

Cherry Blossom, March Event M.list

Authors: ❀ @hongjoongspoetry & bvidzsoo ❀

Pairing: Ateez members x reader

❀ Genre: fluff, soulmate tropes, romance aus ❀ Rating: sfw ❀ Status: on-going

Synopsis: Tired of all the grey weather and the relentless winter cold? Dive into the world of our Cherry Blossom event, riddled with heartwarming and sweet drabbles, here to help ease you into the defrosting spring that we have ahead of us.

❀ This is a collection of eight drabbles written by Mina and myself, containing individual and quite unique soulmate tropes paired with a variety of aus, which have been chosen randomly by us, then placed in a spin-the-wheel to make it all the more interesting when selecting who would write what. ❀

A/N: Hello, my loves, Mina and I are back with a little fluffy surprise for the entirety of March! We are both so excited about this little event, it's actually my first this kind of collaboration despite the many years I've been on this site writing, so I'm really excited about it, and I know Mina is too. I hope we have sparked your interest, here you can check out the event announcement. We also have a taglist for this event that you can join if you'd like! ^^ dividers

❀ Taglist ❀

3rd March - Chasing your shadows (Ariadné)

❀ Outlaw!Kim Hongjoong x Bounty hunter!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: Each day on your arm is a particular event your soulmate will face. Summary: What was supposed to be a wild chase after a bounty you had your eyes set on for years now, turns into a life changing event. You had always known your soulmate was never up to any good thanks to the words inked on your inner forearm ever since you were five years old, but you hadn't expected him to be the biggest menace known to the state...or the man you had been relentlessly chasing, trying to catch for the hefty reward promised.

7th March - Pretend You Love Me (Mina)

❀ Badboy!Choi Jongho x Student!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: Your soulmate's name is on your wrist. Summary: Jongho, heir to Choi Clothes, and you are soulmates marked by each other's names on your wrists since birth. Instead of a fairy-tale romance, you're stuck in a fake dating contract to restore Jongho's tarnished image created by scandals. As you navigate public events and play the part of a cute couple, the lines between fake and real blur together. Despite your undeniable chemistry, you refuse to take him seriously due to his reckless past. As the arrangement nears its end, you must confront the truth about your feelings and whether you can move beyond the contract.

10th March - A world in your colours (Ariadné)

❀ Daycare teacher!Kang Yeosang x Florist!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: You see all the colours for the first time when you meet your soulmate. Summary: A world through the faint hues of your soulmate's eye colour isn't the most colourful life to live. Approaching twenty-five and still being unable to see all the colours the world has to offer has you worried that you'll never meet your soulmate. Doubts and questions riddle your mind day and night, but at least you have the one thing that makes you happy no matter what, your little flowers. You can't actually see their colours, but you can imagine their vibrancy. And then, one day when you're making a bouquet for a lovely man, your whole world gets covered in an overwhelming amount of colour, rendering you stunned.

14th March - A Second to Forever (Mina)

❀ Mixed fairy!Seonghwa x Fairy!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: A timer counting down for when you meet your soulmate. Summary: The countdown on your wrist was getting closer to its end and the jitters of finally meeting your soulmate were rendering you an anxious mess. It was a moment you had waited for your entire life - the chance to put a face and name to the person you were destined to meet - and it made you think of different ways to escape fate. After a series of comedic events where everything that could go wrong, did, you met your soulmate. In that instant, everything changed. The encounter was filled with sparks of attraction, warmth and genuine connection, leading to a tender first interaction that left you both feeling enchanted.

17th March - So it's always been you (Ariadné)

❀ Model!Jung Wooyoung x Stylist!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: Whenever you lose an item, it ends up in your soulmates' possession somehow. Summary: Both young and restless, Wooyoung and you have started out your careers around the same time. As newbies in the industry, you quickly found yourselves sticking together and growing closer with each passing day. Now, many years down the line, everyone knows that you and Wooyoung are inseparable besties, who have each other's backs and will crack up at the stupidest of jokes. As his stylist, it's also convenient that whatever Wooyoung loses just magically turns up in your possession since he's known for losing his stuff often. It takes you quite the years to figure it out, but when you do eventually, everything just clicks in place, all of it making sense.

21st March - Just Another Night, Until You (Mina)

❀ Firefighter!Choi San x Emergency physician!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: Being next to your soulmate heals their and your injuries. Summary: Hectic nights at work is nothing out of the ordinary for you, but when a man is wheeled into the Intensive Care Unit with second degree burns all over his body and in the need of immediate medical attention, your life takes a turn as his body heals on his own by the mere presence of you. Shocked by the discovery, you stay by his side as he recovers and together you come to terms with your unexpected connection.

24th March - The pink and blue of your skin (Ariadné)

❀ Sunshine!Jeong Yunho x Grumpy!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: A touch from your soulmate will leave an imprint there. Summary: If there's one person you never understood, and stopped trying to, it was Jeong Yunho. Upon your first meeting back in college, you just knew he'd be a pain in the ass...and you were right. His vibrant personality matched with the constant smile on his face and sickening positivity always made you stay away from him. But much to your dismay, your friend groups mashed quite well, and years after college, you were still going strong and hanging out at any given opportunity. Much to your horror, your best friend makes you share a room and a bed with Yunho for the weekend, and that's when things change...but not for the reasons you'd first think of.

28th March - Sparks and Bruises (Mina)

❀ Boxer!Song Mingi x Real estate agent!reader ❀

Soulmate trope: Meter showing how much of a danger your soulmate is in. Summary: In a world where everyone at the age of eighteen gets a metal meter implanted on their wrist that shows the amount of danger your soulmate is in. You and Mingi have known each other since high school, but went through a nasty fallout after his love for boxing turned into a dangerous gamble with his life as the price. Years later, you stumble over his injured form on the doorstep of your apartment building. Not having the heart to turn him away like all those years ago, you invite him inside with the intention to clean his wounds, but get a lot more than you bargained for.

© HONGJOONGSPOETRY & BVIDZSOO 2025 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating our work is not allowed.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (13/???)

A little bit more of this. I really think we deserve a break, right?

Enjoy <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Reader

Summary: being alone with Agatha was smoother than you imagined.

Fragile II

The studio was in a silent frenzy, like a living organism preparing for a moment of pure intensity.

Lights were being adjusted, cameras positioned at precise angles, microphones tested to capture every nuance of the pain about to unfold in the scene. Everyone knew this was the scene—the emotional climax of the story.

You sat in a corner of the set, watching everything with sharp eyes, feeling the charged energy in the air. The crew spoke in hushed tones, moving carefully so as not to break the bubble of concentration Wanda had created around herself.

Agatha stood at the center behind the cameras, the main crew gathered around her. Her long fingers toyed with the hem of her blouse, her square-framed glasses resting perfectly on the bridge of her sharp nose, highlighting her well-shaped brows, now drawn together in a small crease as she observed, analyzing every detail.

At the center of the stage, Wanda stood frozen in the doorway—too afraid to step inside and face her worst fear. The lighting cast harsh shadows that deepened the tragedy etched into her expression.

The set was devastating: the boys’ room was in disarray, colorful toys scattered everywhere, a toy car overturned near the door, the beds—messy in a way that felt wrong—held two small, familiar bodies.

Silence fell over the set like a heavy veil.

The scene began.

At first, Wanda only looked. Her eyes widened as if her mind refused to process what was in front of her. One hesitant step, then another. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. And then, it hit. The absolute recognition of loss.

A scream tore through the air.

It was a sound that made your stomach twist—something primal, ripped from the depths of the soul. A wail that couldn't be faked. Wanda threw herself over the bodies, her fingers trembling as they brushed over her children's pale faces.

"No, no, no… my babies…"

The words came out in choked sobs, her body shaking with despair. She rocked them gently, as if they could still wake up, as if there was still hope. But there wasn’t. And that realization shattered her before your eyes.

Her cries weren’t just acting—they were raw, visceral, something that made even the camera operators swallow hard. You hugged your own arms, feeling every word like a blow.

You wrote this scene. Deep down, you knew this was what you wanted. You wanted your mother to feel the pain of losing you—but it had been the complete opposite, hadn’t it?

You created this pain. But you never expected to see it like this, so real, so alive.

From across the room, you saw Agatha inhale sharply, her gaze sharpening as she watched. Her hands gripped the arms of her director’s chair tightly. As focused and composed as she was, when you looked at her, you found something rare—vulnerability.

Maybe it was Wanda’s performance, or maybe… maybe Agatha understood that kind of pain.

Thick tears ran down Wanda’s green eyes, her body curled protectively around children that were never truly hers. She buried her face in their hair, as if afraid they would disappear.

And your heart pounded in your chest, the air in the room growing thin.

Who was Wanda?

Her performance felt too real. It hurt.

“Mommy’s going to bring you back. She will… She’ll do whatever it takes.” Her voice broke, and in that moment, there was truth.

Tears burned at the back of your throat, desperate to escape. This—this was everything you had wanted.

This was it.

The words you had longed to hear. The ones you had waited for, in vain. But she never came back. She never fought for you.

So you had to save yourself.

And now, those words existed.

But they weren’t meant for you.

The knot in your throat tightened.

“Cut!” Agatha finally called out. The entire studio remained still for a few moments, as if no one was sure they were allowed to move, to breathe again.

Wanda remained on her knees, her breath still ragged, her eyes glistening with tears. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the emotion vanished. Her breathing steadied, her shoulders squared, and the vulnerability disappeared behind a neutral, almost cold, expression.

She rose with a fluid motion, lifting her chin as she ran her fingers through her hair. A crew member rushed forward to hand her a plush robe, which she slipped on without hesitation, crossing her arms as if trying to push away any remnants of the scene she had just lived through.

Her forest-green eyes swept across the studio before briefly landing on Agatha, who gave a small nod of approval. Then, they found you.

You watched the shift in her demeanor with a weight in your chest.

How could someone break apart so completely, and then, in the next moment, act as if nothing had happened? The answer should have been simple: Wanda was a brilliant actress.

But for some reason, it felt like more than that. As if she had been trained to bury her emotions the moment they were no longer needed.

Without another glance, she turned on her heels and walked off the set, heading for her dressing room.

Before you could fully process everything that had just happened, Agatha’s assistant hurried over, clutching a tablet against her chest.

“Hey, can you take the twins for lunch? They need some time to relax before the next scene.”

You blinked, taking a second to register what she was asking.

Your gaze flickered toward the two boys sitting in foldable chairs, distractedly playing on their phones, oblivious to the emotional wreckage their last scene had left behind.

They were talented actors—but at the end of the day, they were still just kids.

“Yeah, of course.” Your voice came out softer than you intended.

The assistant smiled gratefully before hurrying off to handle something else.

You exhaled, the weight of an odd exhaustion settling on your shoulders. But your mind wasn’t completely here.

It was still stuck on Wanda.

On her eyes.

On the way the pain had felt real.

And how, suddenly, it didn’t anymore.

Sitting at a table with the twins, you finally felt like you could breathe. The studio’s in-house restaurant had a refined atmosphere, with rustic wooden tables and walls lined with framed posters of old films.

As you chewed your sandwich, you watched the boys devour their generous portions of mac and cheese, as if they hadn’t eaten in three days.

“So, how’d you guys get into acting?” you asked, taking a sip of your juice.

Twin #1 didn’t hesitate, pointing at his brother. “It was his fault. He wanted to be famous. I just went along because I’m a loyal brother.”

“Hey!” Twin #2 protested. “That’s not how it happened! I wanted a new video game, and my mom said she wasn’t going to waste money on that. Then, I saw a casting call for a commercial and thought, ‘Easy. I’m charming and good-looking, they’ll pick me right away!’”

You raised an eyebrow, resting your chin on your palm. “And did they?”

He rolled his eyes, shoving another bite of mac and cheese into his mouth. “Of course not. They picked him!” He pointed at his brother, pretending to be indignant.

Twin #1 grinned triumphantly. “But I made a brotherly pact and said I’d only take the role if they let him in too.”

The brother sighed. "And that's how I became an actor. I just wanted a PlayStation..."

You laughed, shaking your head. "And now here you are, the children of Hollywood’s biggest star."

"Yeah," Twin 2 said with his mouth full. "And I still haven't gotten my PlayStation."

Before you could continue the conversation, Agatha’s assistant approached, holding a tray with an elegantly packaged meal.

"Can you take Wanda’s lunch to her dressing room?"

You blinked, suspicious. "Huh? Me? That’s job stacking, you know. I’m a screenwriter, not a food delivery girl."

The assistant shrugged. "You’re an intern."

Your expression darkened instantly. You narrowed your eyes at her, as if thinking: If only she knew.

You knocked on the dressing room door without much patience, balancing the tray with Wanda’s lunch. "Come in!" her voice came from the other side, and you sighed, turning the doorknob.

The room was intimate. Warm lights illuminated the large mirror, surrounded by small bottles of makeup, a half-empty coffee cup, and a script covered in scribbled notes.

Wanda sat in the red velvet armchair, legs crossed, still draped in her plush robe. Her hair was slightly damp, as if she had quickly run a towel through it.

But her eyes? They were just as piercing as in the scene she had just filmed.

You walked over to a small table beside the mirror and set the tray down. "Your lunch."

Wanda tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. "Is this part of your job too?"

You rolled your eyes. "Apparently, today it is. Need anything else, Your Highness?"

She chuckled, a low, soft sound. "I think I want company."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "Company..." You stopped, realizing she wasn’t joking. "You should’ve put that on your list of demands earlier. I’m just an intern."

"Oh, yes... An intern." Wanda ran her fingers along the arm of the chair, her gaze never leaving you. "But you’re not like the others, are you?"

Your body tensed at the way she said that, like she was studying you. "And what does that mean?"

"It means you’re getting special treatment, and we can’t let that continue, can we?" she said, standing up, walking toward you like a lioness.

"Wanda," you said in a warning tone, as if she knew the line she was about to cross with you.

"Tell me the truth. What do you have with them?"

The tension in the air became almost palpable, and for a moment, you had the impression that she could see beyond what was allowed. As if Wanda had the ability to pull the answers from you without needing to ask directly.

"I... I could ask you the same thing! After all, what were you doing at their house?" You crossed your arms, keeping a safe distance between you. However, you feared what Wanda's answer might be.

But the answer never came. The redhead just analyzed your face with curiosity, searching for something. A flaw.

Her green eyes slowly drifted down to the pendant on your necklace—the small silver lock glinting under the dressing room's warm light. It was a subtle detail, but one she didn’t miss.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, her expression wavering between curiosity and sudden understanding. Her eyes returned to yours, narrowed.

"Interesting..." she murmured, a small laugh escaping her lips. Before you could react, she stepped closer and took your hand.

Her touch was warm, her fingers gliding over yours with deliberate slowness. But then… she stopped. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as if she had felt something unexpected. Her hand released yours as if she had been burned.

You blinked, confused, watching as Wanda clenched her fingers, her gaze distant for a brief second.

And then, she laughed. Low, almost humorless, shaking her head as if she had finally understood something.

"You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into." She let out a disbelieving chuckle. "Go."

The word came as a sharp command. Wanda gave a half-smile, but her eyes said something else—as if she was considering something, pondering over you.

You hesitated. You didn’t know if you wanted to ask what she meant by that or if you should just turn around and leave. But the weight of her gaze made it hard to move.

After all, what had Wanda seen in you?

Leaving the dressing room, you sighed. The day had been so intense and chaotic, and you felt like you desperately needed to rest.

Your phone vibrated in the pocket of your shorts, and you already knew who it was.

Agatha.

My trailer.

You swallowed hard, feeling your palms sweat. You knew you should be used to interacting with Agatha by now, but your mommy could be unpredictable. That both scared and hypnotized you equally.

Without thinking twice, your feet carried you to her trailer. You opened the door slowly, peeking inside, expecting a disapproving glare or a reprimand.

But instead, you found Agatha sprawled on the divan, barefoot, with the same relaxed posture you saw at home every day, her eyes half-lidded as if lost in distant thoughts.

"Come here, baby." Her voice was lower, almost a whisper.

You hesitated but approached, sitting beside her on the divan. She slid her fingers over your wrist gently, as if checking if you were really there. Then, her eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something different in them.

Something more... tender.

"I missed my baby," she murmured with a small smile, her hand reaching for your cheek, the touch warm and comforting.

Your heart clenched at the unexpected confession. You looked away, feeling warmth rise to your face. "I thought I did something wrong."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You worry too much about that. Not everything is punishment, my dear. Sometimes, I just... need you close."

The confession caught you off guard. She didn’t say things like that. Not like this.

Silence settled between you, thick, until Agatha let out a long sigh and lay back on the divan, her gaze lost on the ceiling.

"Sometimes, I find myself wondering how lonely you must have felt." Her voice was lower now, but it carried weight.

You turned your head to look at her, but she was still staring at the ceiling.

"Everything you wrote," she continued, twirling her finger in the air in a vague gesture. "That’s a lot for a girl like you, sweetheart."

You let out a brief, almost humorless laugh. "There are thousands of girls like me, Aggie."

The nickname slipped out before you thought too much, a test. It hung in the air between you, soft, intimate.

She blinked slowly but didn’t comment. Her mind seemed far away.

"No." Agatha whispered. "Not to me."

You held your breath.

She finally turned to you, her expression carrying a kind of confusion that seemed to unsettle her. "I just… I don’t understand how she let you go."

Oh.

You understood.

Slowly, you turned onto your side, lying down next to her, your gaze fixed on the ceiling, ignoring how her eyes were still on you.

Talking about it was never easy. In fact, you weren’t even sure you could put it all into words.

She didn’t leave me all of a sudden," you began, your voice low. "It wasn’t a dramatic abandonment, nothing that felt movie-worthy. It was slow… almost imperceptible."

Agatha didn’t say anything, just watched, waiting for you to continue.

"At first, it was the little things. She forgot to pick me up from school. Forgot to buy my favorite candies. Then, she started spending more time away from home. She’d say she was coming back, but she wouldn’t. And I saw my dad losing his mind because of it." You let out a small, humorless laugh. "Until one day, she just didn’t come back."

The silence in the trailer seemed to stretch.

"I was five," you murmured, the bitter taste of the memory lingering on your tongue. "I had to put my dolls aside and learn how to cook, how to take care of myself. To be an adult before I even understood what that meant."

Agatha didn’t look away. Her eyes, so blue and always full of secrets, were soft now.

"You shouldn’t have gone through that," she said, her voice gentler than usual.

You let out a short, dry laugh. "But I did. And there was no one to stop it."

She took a deep breath, a gesture that felt heavy with something deeper. "And your father?"

You shook your head. "He was never exactly present. He worked too much. We were six kids. He had to make the American Dream happen." You stated rationally, but you didn’t even realize how unsteady your voice was. "I can even understand him. I can understand her, too. No woman should be forced to go through so much."

You were crying. Your lips trembled, unconsciously pulling downward.

"No," Agatha whispered, her voice firm yet strangely soft. She leaned forward slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet. "Don’t try to understand them. Don’t look for justifications. Just… feel this pain. This anger."

You stared at her. Above you, she looked like a dark oracle, an expert in what she was saying.

"You were alone all that time."

"I always was."

"You’re not anymore."

This time, there was nothing enigmatic in her blue eyes. They were open, intense, filled with a vulnerability you didn’t know she possessed.

She took your hand, feeling the soft, pink palm against her own. "Do it." She wasn’t looking at you, and that made her even more beautiful. "And maybe I’ll ask you to make me a list of your favorite candies."

"Oh. The mean director is being more understanding of the intern’s need for sweets, huh?" you teased, even with your eyes still full of tears and vulnerability.

She hummed, kissing your forehead and sighing against your hair. "Only because it’s you, darling."

The warmth of her kiss on your forehead lingered even after her lips had pulled away. Such a simple gesture, yet heavy enough to make your chest tighten again.

You closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing that rare moment of softness. No matter how fierce, dominant, or cruel Agatha could be, there were lapses when she simply… was.

No masks, no ulterior motives. Just Agatha.

"If I’m an exception," you murmured, your eyes still closed, "then I think I should take advantage of it."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." You opened your eyes, turning to look at her with a playful glint. "Does that mean we can have pizza for dinner?"

Agatha sighed theatrically, but you caught the shadow of a smile on her lips. "You really have no limits, do you?"

"Of course, I do," you said, resting your head on the arm of the couch, your eyes shining with amusement. "Pizza just isn’t one of them."

She let out a quiet chuckle and gracefully got up from the chaise lounge, grabbing her phone to check the time. "I’m picking the flavors."

"As long as it’s nothing with artichokes, I’m in," you replied, closing your eyes again, exhausted but comfortable.

And after that, the day felt lighter, and before you knew it, it was time to leave, and you were already getting into Agatha’s car at the usual bus stop.

[...]

The movie was halfway through, the screen’s glow casting soft shadows across the trailer. Fight Club was a classic that both of you, surprisingly, loved—the intensity of the story always sparked discussions about identity, control, and desire. But at that moment, a comfortable silence settled between you.

You were chewing on a piece of pizza, nestled against the cushions on the couch, feeling the weight of the day finally melt away.

Until your phone vibrated beside you.

A message.

Alice: "Are you coming?"

You stopped chewing, staring at the screen for a moment.

Agatha’s gaze remained fixed on the movie, but you noticed the way her jaw tensed slightly.

"Who is it?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the screen.

You swallowed the bite of pizza and cleared your throat. "Alice. She invited me to a party tonight."

Agatha lowered her gaze for a moment. "Hm." The response was neutral, but the tension in the air said otherwise. "And are you going?"

The question felt like a test.

You hesitated.

Should you go?

Alice was your friend, and you knew the party would probably be fun. Right? You’d dance, meet her friends. But the day had been long. And more than that, something about Agatha’s posture felt just as vulnerable as you did.

"No." You shrugged, grabbing another slice of pizza. "I had a long day. I’ll stay here with you, Mommy."

The sparkle in her blue eyes was instant.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t say anything. She just took another sip of her diet soda without looking at you. But you knew you had hit exactly where you wanted.

Her heart.

You opened the chat and typed:

"Hey. I’m really tired today. How about another time? :)"

Before you even sent it, you felt Agatha’s gaze on you. When you looked up to meet her eyes, she simply raised an eyebrow, looking pleased.

The silence between you was comfortable, only the sound of running water and the soft glide of a toothbrush filling the space.

After the movie, Agatha was sitting at the vanity, legs crossed in front of the mirror, spreading lotion over her arms with slow, meticulous movements.

You watched her through the reflection, her skin still damp from the shower, hair loose over her shoulders. She looked calm, lost in her own thoughts.

You spat the foam into the sink, rinsed your mouth, and wiped your lips before speaking:

"You know, you never talk about your past either."

Agatha paused for a moment but didn’t look up.

Before she could say anything, you added:

"The past before Mama."

She closed the jar of lotion slowly, her fingers still tracing the lid as if they needed something to do. "There’s not much to say."

"There is." You turned, leaning against the vanity and crossing your arms. "And I’d like to hear it."

Agatha finally lifted her eyes to meet yours. The blue of them seemed darker under the dim bedroom light. She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing whether it was worth giving in to your curiosity.

"My mother…" She began, her voice lower than usual. "She was a difficult woman. Rigid and unpredictable."

You frowned, taking in every word.

"She had… rules. Lots of rules. I learned early on that love wasn’t free. That there were conditions."

Your chest tightened upon hearing that. You knew that cruel logic better than you would like.

"And your father?" you asked, your voice soft.

Agatha averted her gaze to her own hands, pressing her fingers together. "It doesn't matter."

You took a deep breath, stepping toward her. "Nothing was easy for you either."

She let out a humorless chuckle. "Easy was never something I expected."

Silence fell between you for a moment. You felt like you were treading on delicate ground, but you didn’t want to stop.

"Have you ever thought about—"

"Enough." Her voice came sharp, cutting. You froze.

Agatha stood up abruptly. Her eyes were dark now, the previous vulnerability replaced by something much colder.

"I'm not your curiosity project, darling."

"That’s not what I meant," you argued, feeling frustration rise.

"But that’s how it sounded."

She said, walking to the bed without looking at you. She lay down, the thick sheets swallowing her, and your chest sank.

You sighed, feeling the weight of silence crush your shoulders. You didn’t mean to push so hard. You knew Agatha didn’t handle these things well—being looked at so closely, having someone trying to decipher her.

But you wanted so badly to understand her.

With a sigh, you turned off the lights and walked to the bed, hesitating for a moment before slipping under the sheets. She lay with her back to you, her body rigid, as if still in defense mode.

"I'm sorry." Your voice came out low, hesitant. "I shouldn’t have pushed."

She didn’t respond.

Silence stretched on, and you forced yourself to close your eyes, trying to calm your racing heart. Then, after minutes that felt like hours, Agatha finally broke the silence.

"It's her fault."

You frowned, opening your eyes. She was still facing away, looking out the window, but her voice was heavy with something that made your heart clench.

"It's because of her that I'm like this. Harsh. Severe. Mean."

The last word came out harder than the others, as if she truly believed it.

And then, without even thinking, you said:

"You're not mean."

Your voice was firm but filled with emotion; it felt like a spell of confidence and love.

That made her finally turn to you. Your eyes met hers, intense and full of something you couldn't decipher.

For a moment, everything seemed suspended. As if the air was thick between you, charged with something too big to name.

Suddenly, you missed Rio.

Someone to mediate. Someone who knew how to handle the hurricane that was Agatha Harkness.

But Rio wasn’t there.

It was just you and Agatha, navigating a sea of unspoken words.

You and her.

You and Agatha.

She furrowed her brows, letting out a disbelieving chuckle before closing her eyes, as if trying to ignore you and all the nonsense you were saying.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about."

But you did.

You had gotten so much from her in just one night, and that feeling wouldn’t go away. It only grew, like a plant pushing through the cracks of concrete.

You took a risk once more.

"You're not mean, Aggie. You just accepted the role she imposed on you."

And just like that.

She went still.

For a few seconds, it seemed like Agatha didn’t know how to react.

You moved closer, feeling her breath brush against your skin. Neither of you knew what to say now. Neither of you knew what to do with this closeness.

Your lips brushed against each other.

The touch was almost accidental, but you felt the softness, the warmth of her breath against your mouth.

And then you made the move.

It was a kiss of gratitude.

For everything she did today and always. How she took care of you. How she cherished you.

It was intimate.

Unique.

Agatha didn’t pull away. On the contrary, you felt her fingers slowly glide over your face, holding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the hardened image she insisted on maintaining.

When her lips finally responded to yours, it was like a relieved sigh in the darkness.

And for the first time that night, you felt that maybe, just maybe, you were seeing the real Agatha Harkness.

The first tear slipped down before she could stop it.

You caught it with your lips, salty and warm, as your hands trailed down the valley of her ribs like a pilgrim on sacred land.

"You're so beautiful," you whispered against the pulse where her past throbbed in blue veins.

Courage filled you, perhaps from the confidence of seeing this powerful woman surrendering entirely to you. Your fingers slid lower, to where she was wet and perfect.

The beautiful woman, with her robe completely open, her medium-sized breasts and hardened nipples exposed, made you salivate. And you simply couldn’t resist. Your mouth found her perfect nipples, drawing a sharp inhale from her below you.

"Honey..." Her skilled hands found your hair, long fingers threading through the strands, tangling them—urging you to go deeper, to savor the feeling.

The emotion that took over you was dangerous. Forbidden. You shouldn’t feel like this… Capable of impossible things. But when Agatha was moaning beneath you, writhing and encouraging you to give her more, that’s exactly how you felt.

Desire consumed you like a flame that couldn’t be contained. You moved, adjusting yourself over Agatha, your legs intertwining with hers in a fluid, natural motion. The scissoring position—intimate, intense—placed you face to face, breaths mingling.

"Mommy," you moaned, voice needy, lips brushing hers as your bodies aligned, clits pressing together in a hot, wet friction.

"Fuck." Agatha let out a low sound, almost a choked moan, her hands gripping your hips tightly. "My good girl," she murmured, her voice rough, laden with something that made your stomach tighten.

You started moving, slowly at first, rubbing against her in a rhythm that made both your bodies tremble. The sensation was electrifying—the heat, the wetness, the perfect friction. You felt every shudder of Agatha, every ragged breath she released.

"Just like that..." she whispered, fingers digging into your hips, guiding your movements. "You're so good for me, darling." Her sharp cheekbones flushed with arousal. "Oh. God—Fuck!"

Your heart raced at her words, the reverence and desire blending into an overwhelming wave. You quickened the pace, bodies colliding with growing intensity. Agatha’s breathing became faster, more labored, and you felt her heat rising, the slickness dripping between you.

"You're perfect," you murmured, lips finding hers in a deep, devouring kiss. "So beautiful, mommy. All mine."

Agatha arched her back, pressing her breasts against your torso, her hardened nipples grazing your skin. Her hands roamed down your back, nails digging slightly, leaving marks you knew you’d wear with pride.

She claimed your lips, thrusting her tongue in deep, the movements rough and filthy. A woman who needed to take and be taken. The kiss had no meaning anymore, just a mess of teeth, tongues, and bites.

When you pulled away, a thick string of saliva connected you.

"More," she ordered, her voice a low growl that echoed through your ribs. "Give it to me, darling." Your sweaty foreheads pressed together. "Give mommy everything."

You obey, quickening the pace, your bodies moving in perfect sync. The room fills with wet sounds—high-pitched, needy moans and the soft creak of the bed. Agatha is close; you feel it in the way her muscles tense, in the way her fingers dig into your flesh.

"I’m gonna—" She chokes, her face buried in your neck, teeth grazing your skin. "Fuck— Baby, you’re gonna make… make mommy come.”

The drawn-out, desperate whine is your breaking point. You move faster, thrusting deeper, grinding against her with an intensity that makes both your bodies tremble, as if you’d fused into one. Because you did—you followed her right over the edge.

The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your bodies arching and shaking in wild, unrestrained desperation as she muffles your name into the sheets.

You don’t stop, keeping the rhythm, prolonging every ripple of pleasure until she collapses, exhausted and spent, against the mattress.

When you finally still, you lower yourself over her, lips meeting hers in a soft, tender kiss. Agatha wraps her arms around you, holding you like she never wants to let go.

"My good girl," she whispers, her voice gentle, laced with something that makes your chest tighten. "My sweet girl."

You curl into her, breathing in the warmth of her skin, the scent of her perfume mingling with sweat and sex.

"That was…" She inhales sharply, trying to steady her breath. "So good."

You laugh, humming in agreement, nuzzling into her chest. But your stomach still buzzes. More of her. More of Agatha.

You kiss her collarbone, and she shudders, oversensitive.

"Baby," she gasps, fingers tangling in your hair, gently tugging you back. "Mommy’s too sensitive right now."

But you don’t want to stop. Can’t. The need for Agatha still burns in you, a flame that refuses to die. You shake your head, lips finding her breast again, kissing every inch of skin you can reach.

You murmur a muffled sound, your voice hoarse and thick with want.

Agatha lets out a laugh mixed with a whimper, her grip tightening in your hair. "My insatiable little girl," she whispers, her voice soft, laced with something that makes your pulse race.

You don’t answer, too focused on exploring her body with eager hands and lips. Your fingers slide down Agatha’s trembling thighs, tracing the slick, swollen folds still wet and tender.

"Baby…" She arches, fingers knotting in your hair. "You’ll kill me."

"I’ll take care of my mommy," you whisper, lips brushing the soft skin of her inner thigh, nipping gently. "So you’ll never have to cry again."

Agatha moans low, her grip on your hair tightening. "My good girl," she rasps, her voice frayed with something that twists your stomach. "So… so precious."

You keep going, fingers gliding over her slick heat, electrified by the power to make Agatha shatter, to strip her of control.

The broken, needy whine she lets out undoes you. You speed up, thrusting deeper, grinding against her with a ferocity that makes both your bodies quake.

Agatha gasps as your middle and ring fingers slide into her entrance—slow, deliberate, a procession, not an invasion. Her body opens like a night-blooming flower, drenched in dew and secrets.

"Slow…" she orders, but her trembling voice gives her away. "Mommy needs to feel… everything."

You obey. Your thumb circles her clit while your fingers curl inch by inch, seeking the spot that makes her legs shake.

"Like this, mommy?" You kiss her neck, where her perfume mixes with sweat. "Want me to worship every part she’ve ruined?"

Her answer comes in silent spasms. Her nails claw your shoulder, leaving half-moon crescents blooming red.

Then you quicken the pace.

The room fills with slick symphonies. Your fingers move at a precise angle now, a deep massage she’d never allow in any other context. Her head thrashes wildly, as if even she doesn’t know what’s coming, her chestnut hair fanning like a shattered halo.

"P-please…" The plea is choked, almost pained.

You pause, fingers still inside her. Stunned that the word left her lips. Agatha turns her face away, her icy-blue eyes glossed with unshed tears.

"Please, baby. Mommy’s begging."

Fuck.

It destroys you. Destroys whatever shred of sanity you had left.

Your wrist twists in an ancient rhythm—fast, slow, fast again. The bed creaks in Morse code. She’s close; you feel it in the way her muscles clench like a fist around your fingers.

"Baby, I’m gonna— Oh. God! Fuck, that’s—"

Before she can finish, the orgasm splits her in two. Her furious blue eyes roll back, hips bucking, trembling legs locking around your waist.

Hot pulses soak your hand, the sheets drowning in wave after wave. You hold her hips aloft, dragging out every spasm until she screams.

You don’t stop, moving relentlessly, stretching every aftershock until she collapses, wrecked and full, into the mess.

"Fuck, baby!"

You keep going. Just a little more. Just to prove what you do to her. That she’s as ruined as you are.

"Oh my god. God. Again!" The laugh that spills from your lips is cocky, like you’ve won a marathon. "You’re ruining me." She moans loud, and suddenly you wish your other mommy were here. She’d be proud, you can tell.

You leave your fingers buried inside her even after the second climax, studying every tremor that racks her body like a hunter assessing prey. Sweat drips between your pressed breasts, your breath mixing with hers in a haze of possession.

"Do you even know what you do to me, mommy?" you whisper against her thigh, teeth sinking into soft flesh. Your voice cracks, a plea disguised as a taunt.

Agatha tries to turn her face, but you grip her chin hard. The tears streaking your own cheeks drip onto her chest.

"Say it. Say you’re as fucked up as I am."

She laughs—a raw, desperate sound—as her legs quiver around your waist. "You little fucking piece of shit…" she snarls, but the heaving of her stomach betrays the truth.

You curl your fingers inside her, finding her G-spot with the precision of someone who’s memorized every inch of this territory. "Say it."

The moan she lets out is nearly a howl. "Yes! Yes, fuck! Happy now?! You make me… make me insane, you psychotic little slut—From the goddamn beginning."

You speed up, turning words into animal sounds. "How much?"

Agatha grabs your wrists, nails drawing blood. "To the bone. To the soul. Until I forget what I am—"

The third orgasm plows through her. She writhes like a wounded animal, fluids dripping down your hand like a river of shame and surrender.

You watch, hypnotized, as the woman who shaped your private hell unravels under your touch.

"Look at me," your voice is steel, yanking her hair until her tear-drenched blue eyes meet yours. "You wanted this all along? From the moment you saw me? Huh?"

Her trembling lips form the answer in slow motion: Yes. Fuck. Yes. My sick little slut. Your innocence. Your youth. Your energy. You’re mine!

The laughter that escapes your throat is wet, triumphant. You lick her fluids from your fingers, maintaining eye contact, each suck a period in your private war.

When you collapse onto her, it's Agatha who envelops your burning body, her hand tangled in your hair like diamond shackles. "You destroy me," she whispers into your neck, tongue licking the salt from your tears. "And I let you. God, I let you."

You slowly retract your fingers, bringing them to your own mouth without breaking eye contact. The taste is amber and electricity.

"Hmmm, delicious, mommy," you say, now completely unfiltered, and she lets out a breathless laugh.

"You are unbelievable."

You chuckle, burying your face in her cleavage. "But you loved it."

"I tolerate it," she corrects, but you feel the hidden smile at the top of your head. "Besides, who’s going to explain to the staff what happened to the sheets?"

"Mama's fault?" You look up with a cute pout and puppy-dog eyes.

"It's your fault," she rolls her eyes, trying to maintain her tough facade, but there’s a small, genuine smile peeking through. "You and that… finger technique you learned God-knows-where."

"On the internet. I watched some videos on Pornhub, you know, with MILFs and everything." You almost unconsciously mimic Rio’s accent, and Agatha rolls her eyes.

Agatha pushes your face away with the palm of her hand, laughing despite herself. "You're insufferable."

"But you adore me."

"I tolerate you," she repeats, but pulls you back into an embrace. "And maybe… I should give the staff a raise."

You snuggle into her neck, smiling against her skin. "We can say it was an accident with the tea," you suggest, knowing Agatha’s passion for drinking tea at night.

"Two boiling cups of tea on my king-size bed?" She wets her lips with her tongue, the corners pulling into an ironic smile.

"They were very aroused cups. They couldn’t help themselves."

Agatha lets out a grunt, but her fingers trace soft circles on your back. "You’re the worst intern I’ve ever had."

"And best and only baby?" You blink several times, turning up your charm.

The silence lasts half a second too long. You lift your head, worried, but find her soft blue eyes—now with a hint of green bleeding into the irises, mixing with the sky blue—almost… shy.

"Maybe," she murmurs, covering her face with her hand, pushing your body off the bed. "Now shut up and get me some water before I change my mind." Her voice ends in a dry rasp.

You leap from the bed, naked and disheveled, striking a superhero pose. "Sparkling or still, your highness?"

"With ice. And… bring my phone and the ice cream from the freezer."

"Ice cream!" You cheer, jumping, bumping into a chair, and nearly knocking over a lamp.

"Rum raisin!" she calls over her shoulder, already adjusting her robe with royal dignity.

"But I don’t like that one!" you grumble with a pout.

"I pay, I choose."

You pout but don’t argue. You knew Agatha well enough to know she always won these little battles.

As you walk to the kitchen, you feel the lingering warmth on your skin, as if her presence had left an invisible mark on you. And maybe it had.

Opening the freezer and grabbing the damned rum raisin ice cream, you roll your eyes. Of course Mommy would choose this flavor. So… old. But deep down, you loved her demanding ways. She always knew exactly what she wanted—and now, that included you.

With the water and ice cream in hand, you return to the bedroom and find Agatha reclining on the bed, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, the blue glow of her phone screen reflecting on her face. She was texting, probably Mama. Or maybe firing someone—who knew.

She looks up at you, assessing your nakedness with a gaze almost too clinical to be innocent, before letting out an exasperated sigh.

"I should scold you for walking around like that in the house."

You smile, setting the things on the nightstand before crawling back into bed, nestling against her. "But you love it."

"I tolerate it," she corrects automatically, but the arm around your body tightens just a little more, contradicting her words.

She picks up the ice cream and the spoon, but instead of eating, her eyes glimmer with mischief. "Want a bite?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Rum raisin? That tastes like old people."

"Oh. You cheeky thing. Have you ever tasted old?"

A mischievous grin spreads across your face. You arch your eyebrows, pretending to think.

"Well…"

"Argh, your Mama is influencing you too much," Agatha exclaims, feigning indignation, but there’s an indulgent smirk behind her accusatory words.

"Taste it," she says, holding the spoon to your lips, challenging. "If I have to tolerate you, you can at least share my impeccable taste."

You roll your eyes but comply. As soon as the ice cream touches your tongue, the strong rum flavor takes over, and you regret it instantly.

"Ugh!" You make an exaggerated grimace. "This is horrible!"

Agatha laughs out loud, a rare and genuine sound.

And, for some reason, hearing that uninhibited, unrestrained laugh does something to you. Without thinking much, you snuggle closer, resting your head against her chest.

She hesitates for a moment—a second too long for someone like Agatha Harkness—but then, without a word, she wraps her arm around you, her body warm and firm against yours.

The silence that settles this time is different. Comfortable.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and something warmer, something more Agatha.

You stay like that, breathing together, letting the world outside wait.

Then, in a soft, almost distracted tone, Agatha murmurs against your hair:

"I adore you, darling."

Oh.

Your heart stumbles for a second, a beat out of sync.

You pull back just enough to look into her eyes, gaze locked with hers.

And then, with a small—but genuine—smile, you answer, voice low but full of certainty:

"I know."

And you did. After what happened today, maybe Aggie had shown it beyond words.

Just for you.

She rolls her eyes, but you catch the corner of her mouth curling into a little smile.

And that’s enough.

~*~

I always wanted say theses words to Agatha. She really wasn't that bad. You aren't bad, my readers and I hope you know that <3

Tag List <3

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[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒─

Warnings/MDNI: Slight fluff, angst, abuse , reader being called names e.g. harlot // I don't condone such beheviour irl! Syno: New beginnings or the....end? ✰ 9K

★ Prev I concept m.list

Two weeks had passed...The mornings at camp always began too early for your liking, the faint rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks of the canvas tent like unwelcome intruders.

You had grown up in silk and lace, with meals served on porcelain , peaceful, and quiet environments. Now, you woke to the distant clatter of pots and pans, the sharp bark of someone’s laughter cutting through the cold morning air, and the unfamiliar scratch of coarse blankets that smelled faintly of damp wood and tobacco smoke.

Suki, your beloved, was your only source of comfort. Her soft purrs against your chest at night were a balm to your wounded spirit. She stayed close to you, a reminder of the life you’d left behind. But there was also the reality laying behind you...his snores making you remain awake. Awake to the new truth, the bitter truth.

Arthur brought you food without asking if you were hungry. He made sure your tent was stocked with rations, even as the others made do with far less. His instructions were on the second morning when you still couldn't process anything. Just more control disguised as care.

Don't walk to the river alone

Don't even think about walking too far from camp. (as if you can even walk to the stables...considering the tight watch on you from him and the men)

Don't get out of the tent at night for unnecessary reasons.

Stay in the tent when strangers come to camp.

If anyone gives you trouble, you come to me, not Hosea, not Dutch, just me.

Keep your voice down, no one needs to hear you arguing with me. (which must be a joke--because....what? Not happening.)

Don't do any hard labor around. For anyone. No matter what anyone says.

"Don’t need you breaking a nail." The words stung, a bitter reminder of the prison disguised as protection. The audacity to say that after shattering your whole life.

What a gentleman.

But you didn’t let it touch you.

When he handed you a plate of food, you ate in silence, your expression unreadable. When he tried to drape his coat over your shoulders on a cold night, you shrugged it off the moment his back was turned. Always facing the canvas wall and not him at night and shivering with fear. Sleep never came easy for you. And when Arthur left the camp, you felt Bill’s eyes on you, not subtle in the least, his broad figure often leaning against a post or pretending to tend to some task, but always nearby. It wasn’t protection, it was surveillance.

You didn’t lash out, didn’t scream or cry or beg. You knew it wouldn’t work. You’d seen the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes that said he wasn’t letting go. So, you resisted in the only way you could, being quiet and in your shell. Inside the prison.

A cold silence when he spoke. A pointed look when he tried to touch you. A refusal to acknowledge the small gestures he thought would win you over.

Arthur didn’t say much about your resistance, but you could see it in the way his hands tightened into fists when you ignored him, in the way his jaw clenched when you sat stiffly beside him at the fire (which he dragged you to) , not saying a word. Not exactly a picture perfect newly wed couple others hoped. Or perhaps he lived in the delusion of.

When Grimshaw came by, she didn’t carry the same judgment as the others. Her tone, usually sharp and commanding, softened around you. Once, she even sat beside you, her hands busy mending a shirt as she said, almost too casually, "It gets easier. This life, I mean. Not right away, but… it does."

You didn’t reply, but she didn’t seem to mind. Grimshaw didn’t push; instead, she surprised you with an unexpected patience. She offered small gestures of comfort, a steaming cup of herbal tea to "settle your nerves," as she put it. Or heating up some water for you to freshen up.

Her vigilance extended even to the simplest of tasks, like when you went to use the girls’ makeshift toilet/bathroom. It was yet another struggle, a constant reminder of how far you’d fallen. Gone were the days of soaking luxuriously in your own bathtub. Now, even basic necessities felt like a downgrade.

Every now and then, she’d drop off chores she thought were manageable, like sorting linens or cleaning a few utensils, tasks that didn’t require you to step far from your tent. “Something to keep your mind busy,” she’d say, leaving before you could refuse.

You hated how grateful you felt for her small kindnesses, didn't actually mind it, but it didn’t go unnoticed. When you’d reluctantly finished the tasks she left, there was a quiet understanding in the way she’d nod at you from across the camp or leave another small task the next day. It was the closest thing to routine you’d found here.

Still, even her attempts to draw you out fell flat most days. You could see the pity in her eyes, the way she lingered as though waiting for you to say something , anything , but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. Even when she tried to talk about mundane things, like camp chores or the horses, complaining about men here, all you could do was nod or mutter a half-hearted reply.

The girls would occasionally stop by, trying to talk to you or cheer you up, asking questions to piece together fragments of your life. But their curiosity, their attempts to connect, never went far. You rarely engaged, and when you did, it was clipped, distant. You didn’t miss the taunts about your so-called "lavish" past either, were they innocent jabs or something more bitter? You couldn’t tell, and truthfully, you didn’t care.

You would never trust these people. Not after everything. And then there was this incident with Mary Beth, on what? The third day? You don't even fucking remember. You came to know about her calling this all..... "romantic" as if sprinkling more salt on your wounds and you lost it.

The night had been calm, the campfire casting a warm glow while everyone gathered for supper. Mary-Beth sat on her usual spot, her knees tucked under her as she read, her face serene.

Before she even realized it, her book was in your hands, and then, rip. Pages tore from their spine, fluttering like wounded birds to the ground.

"Romantic, huh? This is what you read?! The fuckin' nerve of you. You think this is all fun?! LOOK AT ME!" you screamed, your voice shaking as you threw the remains of her book aside and grasped her face making her freeze in fear and shock. "AM I FUCKING PRANCING AROUND HERE, GIGGLING?!"

"Hey! I-what-"

Before she could get a word out, Tilly stepped between you, untangling you, her hands raised, her tone firm but careful. "We didn’t mean it like that-she didn’t mean it like that. Trust me. We were just talking-"

"Then don’t fucking talk about me!" you snapped, now turning to her. "Don’t even DARE! How dare you all even think that?! Only people like you can celebrate such a shit and cruel tradition! Bunch of morons!"

You didn’t care how you looked, wild-eyed, trembling, growling like a maniac. You didn’t care about the stares or the silence that followed, broken only by your ragged breathing. You now grabbed Tilly's arms shaking her. "Nobody here should even say my name out of your nasty TONGUES! I'll kill someone if I hear such shit again. YOU HEAR ME?!" Your voice echoed across the camp, sharp and seething with fury. Then a strong hand clamped around your arm. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Arthur.

"That’s enough."

"Let go of me! ASSHOLE!" you hissed, trying to wrench free.

But he didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened, and with one sharp tug, he spun you around and started dragging you back toward the tent.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

"Enough!" He shoved the flap open and all but pushed you inside, stepping in after you and yanking the flap closed again.

"You done now?" he asked, his voice quieter but no less sharp.

"FUCK OFF! I HATE YOU! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"

The tears were already spilling over, and before he could say another word, you threw yourself under the covers of your bedding, burying your face in the fabric as the sobs came harder, relentless.

Arthur stood there momentarily, his hand falling to his side, unsure whether to press or leave you alone. He sighed his jaw tightening as he turned away. He wasn’t going far though. Not tonight.

And then days passed in cold, depressive silence from you until last night...

The cot creaked under the weight of his broad frame as Arthur lay down beside you, the narrow space forcing his presence against yours. His arm brushed against your shoulder, and though he made no move to pull you closer, the heat of him was impossible to ignore. You lay stiff as a board, your back turned to him, your entire body practically vibrating with anger and fear.

The tent was dark except for the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the canvas. Outside, the muffled voices of the gang were distant and always the same to you.

“Y’ain’t gonna say a damn thing, huh?” His voice broke the silence, low and raspy, laced with irritation.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t answer. The effort to stay silent was exhausting.

Arthur shifted beside you, making the whole cot shake in protest. “You’ve been mad at me for days now. Hell, darlin’, I’m startin’ to think you enjoy it,” he said, his tone teasing, yet tired.

Your fists balled up under the blanket, your nails digging into your palms. You stared at the canvas wall ahead of you, refusing to dignify him with a response. The fucking audacity of this monster.

He let out a frustrated sigh. “This ain’t gonna fix anything, y’know. You bein’ all cold and quiet. It ain’t gonna change what’s done. If I could’ve done it different, I would’ve. But I can’t. And I ain’t lettin’ you go."

His words made your blood boil. What’s done?? As if he hadn’t ripped your life from you like a thief in the night.

"Go to sleep." you muttered finally, your voice cutting through the dark like a knife.

Arthur let out a low chuckle, humorless and rough. "Now, that’s the first word you’ve said to me in forever," he drawled, the smirk clear in his voice. "Progress, I guess."

You bit your lip almost to the point of eating it off.

He shifted again, his arm brushing against your waist under the blanket to which you immediately moved even further away if that was even possible. The casual contact felt intentional, as if he was testing you.

"You’ll get tired of this eventually," he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "Can’t keep runnin’ on anger forever."

Shut the fuck up already.

You wanted to tell him he didn’t know the half of it. That he didn’t understand just how deep your resentment ran. But instead, you stayed silent.

"Fine," he murmured, his voice trailing off. "Be mad all you want. I ain’t goin’ anywhere...I ain’t good at this, I’ll admit it. But if you think I don’t care, you’re wrong."

And with that, he settled in, his arm resting just barely against your back. Even as your eyes burned with unshed tears, you stared into the dark, resolute.

And as if matters weren’t bad enough, someone else decided to get under your skin.

Marston.

Of all people decided to bother you today for the first time since you arrived as he wasn't at the camp before. The man you assumed wouldn’t even remember your name with the peanut-sized brain he seemed to possess.

"Came back as a Morgan now, huh? Well, I’ll be damned," he said with a whistle, his voice dripping with mock surprise. He stood outside your tent, leaning against one of the poles, his arms crossed as if he had the right to judge. "Honestly, I’m shocked. Didn’t think anyone could tie down Arthur. But not completely shocked it turned out to be...you. So childhood love, eh? And he did the word....damn. First in our gang. Shit, I missed it all.."

Your teeth clenched at his smug tone. The insinuation was too much. You shot up from the cot, the anger bubbling over as you shoved him back.

"Get out of my sight, you pathetic piece of shit."

"Whoa there!" he said, stepping back with a laugh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Still no manners, huh? Well, if you’re gonna live here, might as well start being nice to your brother-in-law. Oh, it's going to be much more fun annoying you now.'

That smug wheeze of his was the final straw. Your hand shot to the nearest object on the small table a tin cup and you hurled it at him. He ducked, barely missing it, his laughter only growing louder.

"Rich words coming from a man who still has to pay women just to glance at him. Exactly what I envisioned you’d grow up to be, John. You didn’t disappoint."

His grin faltered, just for a moment, before he forced it back, shaking his head with a low, humorless chuckle. "Same ol’ spoiled you, huh? Guess some things never change."

"And some people never grow up."

"You think you’re better than us? Look around at where you are. To end up here, with him... surely you must’ve been no less than a harlot yoursel--HEY! GET OFF ME!"

"Complete it! Go on, I dare you, asshole!" He tried to shove you off, but the moment your grip loosened on his collar, you struck, delivering a sharp smack across his face.

"YOU LITTLE-"

"John!" Dutch’s voice boomed from his tent across the way. "Go do something productive! Leave the girl alone. NOW!"

John froze, his lips tightening as he registered the command. "…What? I was just greeting her. Y’know...family and all.'' He let out a defeated snort, shoulders slumping, and muttered something under his breath as he sauntered off.

You didn’t bother watching him leave. With a huff, you grabbed the tent flaps and yanked them shut, the fabric swishing angrily in your hands. You flopped back down onto the cot, the reality of everything crashing into you again.

Tears blurred your vision as they spilled freely, your shoulders trembling as you hugged yourself, swaying back and forth.

(Y/N) Morgan.

Harlot.

(Y/N) Morgan....

Harlot.

The words kept burning like acid.

No matter what they do, I get blamed?! Of course. Another Saturday being a woman.

Pieces of shit, dirt.

Absolutely the fuck not.

You clenched your jaw, wiping at your cheeks harshly. Don’t let a loser’s words get to you, you told yourself, trying to drown out the echo of John’s taunting voice and your own festering anger.

You are , yes , still are more accomplished and better than anyone here. Not a thief, not a murderer and definitely not a harlot.

But deep down, it wasn’t just John’s words that haunted you. It was everything, the name, the camp, the suffocating feeling of being trapped in someone else’s world.

You will always be (Y/N) (L/N), fuck this tradition. It means nothing.

❀˖°

"Finish this. C’mon."

He held the spoon in his calloused hand, leaning closer. You turned away, clutching Suki tightly to your chest, her soft fur grounding you.

'Why can't he just get lost in a ditch somewhere? Why does he keep coming back? Why doesn't death encounter him with all the dangerous shit he does?'

Should you tell him about John calling you names- NO. You don't need him to deal with your problems, as he would have done if you both were young. You don't need anyone's help.

"I ain’t bringing these for free, y’know. So they ain't gonna rot, you are gonna finish them."

"I didn’t ask you to," you snapped.

"Good thing I ain’t waitin’ for permission, huh? So yeah, I’ll keep doing it anyway because it's my duty."

Your grip on Suki tightened as you turned to glare at him. "I know exactly what you’re trying to do, Arthur. Trying to create this illusion, ‘Oh, look at me, I’m bringing her fruit and meat so she’ll forget what I did.’ No, Arthur. It doesn’t work that way. None of this is worth anything. It’s not going to reverse anything, not even come close to the comfort I had."

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his piercing gaze darkening further. "I don’t care what you think or had. This is your fucking life now. Why do I have to keep reminding you , huh?!." he growled low, his voice like a warning rumble of thunder. "Don’t piss me off more right now. Eat. It. Right. Now."

You held his glare for a moment, your hands trembling with restrained anger as you snatched the fruit plate from him and placed it on your lap. You didn’t touch it, though not with him standing there like some damn lieutenant, watching your every move. But thankfully he went away, probably to freshen up.

You take a few hesitant bites. Your thoughts drift to your family, mother, father, and brother. What might they be doing right now? Are they sitting down to supper together, or is your absence too heavy to ignore? Your work, you miss going to the office with your father. And Omar, is he well? You prayed for him daily. His family? Well, they must be cursing you. Your heart broke that they might be regretting the whole engagement and calling you names too. Is your father doing anything!? Is he trying to find a way to bring you back? He must be. He should be.

But every time you let yourself believe in that fragile hope, Dutch’s cold, calculated words clawed their way back into your mind.

"And you damn well know that even if the law gets here, they won’t care about this. It’s only a crime on paper… in reality, the sheriffs and marshals? They won’t lift a finger. They don’t give a damn about this."

If that’s really true, then… is this it? Is this your life now?

No.

Money can turn heads, grease palms, and open doors. If your family offered enough, those same indifferent lawmen would find a needle in a haystack if it suited them. And your family? They don’t lack for that.

But your reputation.

Your hands trembled, clutching Suki closer as the tears threatened to spill again. The voice in your head....why doesn't it go away...?

No. No, I didn’t lose anything. I don’t give a fuck. Let people think and talk all they want. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. They always need something to talk about.

You exhale sharply, forcing the tears away as though the pain will evaporate with them.

And once you get back, no, once you’re free, you won’t stay in this Godforsaken country anyway. Neither will your family. Let this place rot. It doesn’t deserve you. It's hurt you enough.

Another thought had been gnawing at the edges of your mind, something your ears had picked up unintentionally the other morning.

Pinkertons.

You knew about the agency hell, Arthur had mentioned them in passing during one of your 'old' meetings, which were just distant unreal memories to you now. A band of relentless hunters after outlaws, but they weren’t saints themselves. You remembered your father’s words about them, greedy, opportunistic, willing to do anything if the price was right.

Mhm...

Your attention snapped back to the present as a heavy presence settled beside you on the cot.

Suki leapt off your lap, stretching lazily before sauntering off. Almost as if she held the same disdain for his presence. Ain't she your good girl.

You felt his eyes on you, his silent scrutiny made your skin crawl, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you lifted another bite to your mouth, not because you were hungry or needed the sustenance, but because you didn’t want to engage with him again.

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took another bite of his meal, his gaze flicking to you out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t like he minded bringing the food from the fire or making sure you didn’t waste away, but the whispers and sidelong glances from the other men by the fire in camp grated on him.

"Our boy got himself a pretty little wife now."

"Maybe she’s got you on a leash, huh? How’s it feel, boy?"

"Careful, Arthur, don’t forget to tuck her in tonight."

"What kind of outlaw plays house, huh? Real sweet, Morgan."

The words clung to the air like the smoke from their cigarettes, thick with mockery and amusement. Arthur didn’t flinch at their jabs, but he didn’t rise to them either. As for the additional rations and snacks, he brought them in secret, stashing them away like contraband treasures. Caring for his wife, it seemed, was a sin in their eyes, an act that invited ridicule from men who barely knew the meaning of responsibility, let alone love. He couldn’t give you the life you once had, not completely, but he could offer enough to make you forget it or at least dull the ache of its absence. Spoil you rotten in his own way. And if it meant robbing, killing, or bleeding himself dry until his last breath, then so be it.

Because you were his, and no one, not Dutch, not the gang, not even the damned world, and even you, could take that from him.

He told himself it didn’t bother him, but he couldn’t ignore the edge in their voices. Greed? Jealousy, maybe. Or perhaps they just didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom why he’d go to these lengths. Arthur didn’t need their approval. Let them talk. They always yap. They’d never have what he has, even if you still looked at him with cold disdain and fear.

But his pride did bristle every time someone insinuated he was soft as if keeping you... alive and halfway sane somehow made him weak.

And then there was you. Lost...and yet fighting. He wanted to snap at you, to force you to listen to him for once, but he knew how that would end. Another night of tears, of you retreating further into yourself, and him sitting outside the tent wondering what he was doing wrong.

What he in fact, did wrong.

Damn it.

Hell, he still felt shit for leaving you tied up on the cot on the first night for hours to teach you some lesson, which resulted in bruises on your wrist which he could still spot under your sleeves. He was indeed totally lost that day.

He looked down at his plate, then at you, the frustration in his chest threatening to boil over. But beneath it, buried deep where even he didn’t like to look, was something else.

Guilt.

He didn’t miss the way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for another bite, or the shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there before all this. If you’d let him, he’d feed you himself daily. If he had all the time in the world, he’d spend it making amends, caring for you, pampering you from head to toe, and trying to piece together what he’d broken. You were different now. Smaller, quieter....almost soulless. He missed your laugh, jokes, and teasing that could pull a grin from even the most miserable bastard. The light in your eyes...

He craved what any man would, a wife waiting for him, dolled up or simply present, a comforting sight to return to after long days. He remembered his mother doing just that, though his father had been far from the best. Well… that was another story.

Sometimes, the thought crossed his mind to demand it, to make you adorn yourself as he wished. But again, he didn’t want your compliance born of fear, he wanted it to come from you, willingly...which only felt like a dream.

Snap out of it. Don't let this get to you. It's done. And sooner or later she'll come around. She has no other choice.

Even going on jobs in these two weeks felt different now. Before, his concerns were solely for the gang, their survival, their next meal. But now, you were part of the equation. You weren’t just another responsibility, you were something altogether separate, fragile in a way that set him on edge. He had to think of you, your safety, your future.

And yet, every morning, he pressed a kiss to your head, as quietly and discreetly as he could, fearing you’d stir. It was a small, selfish ritual, one that whispered his own fears. What if he didn’t come back one day? What if everything he’d done, the risks taken, the damn word, ended up being for nothing?

But you, in your own quiet way, were a motivation too....as in your mere existence back at the camp in his tent made him stronger.

"Finish the damn fruit," he muttered finally, his tone softer now, though still edged with irritation. "I’ll be back in a few with the stew. But don’t get comfortable thinkin’ this is how it’s gonna be. If I ain’t lettin’ you work for others, that sure as hell doesn’t mean you ain’t gonna do my work and your own. Ya' ain't gonna be cooped up here as some princess forever."

You glanced at him, finally breaking your silence, though your voice dripped with venom. "Your work? O-h, you mean cooking your food, cleaning up after you, and playing the perfect little captive wife?. Should I start callin’ you ‘sir’ while I’m at it?"

"You’re real good at smartin’ off, but I don’t care if you’re mad, this ain’t a damn vacation."

"Mad? Oh no, Arthur, I’m thrilled. Thrilled that you think you can steal my life and then bark orders like I’m some ranch hand. I am not doing shit for you or anyone."

Arthur’s gaze darkened, his hand tightening around his fork. "You think I like this? I don’t. But it’s better than sittin’ here wasting away. You think I stole your life? Maybe I did. But I’m tryin’ to keep you in it."

You leaned back against the cot sighing in disbelief at his words. "If you wanted a servant, you should’ve hired one. But I guess stealing a wife was cheaper, huh? And I don't care about wasting away. Sounds a thousand times better than whatever this is. I'd rather die-"

"Watch your mouth, woman." His hand as on it's own shot out to your chin giving a reprimanding shake.

"Why? Bec-ause I didn’t like losing my freedom either, but here we are. And I am not scared of you Arthur...you already showed the worst of yourself. I won't be surprised if it gets worse than this."

For once, he didn’t respond. He stood, his boots scuffing the ground as he left the tent in utter silence which you smelled as guilt but does it change anything for you? No. Does it make him take you back? No. Then fuck him.

❀˖°

The faint orange hues of dawn barely began creeping over the horizon when a rough hand on your shoulder jolted you awake. Disoriented, you blinked up at the shadowed figure looming over you, the faint smell of tobacco and leather unmistakable.

"Get up," Arthur’s voice was low but urgent, a gruff whisper that didn’t match the stillness of the early morning.

You groaned, clutching the blanket tighter around you. "Wha-?"

"We’re movin’," he said, already turning away to toss a saddlebag onto the cot near your feet. "Pack your things. Got no time to waste. And don't forget anything here." He was well aware how precious your stuff was.

"What?" You pushed yourself up, the chill of the morning air biting against your skin. "Why? What’s going on?"

"Don’t ask questions, just do it," he snapped, though not with anger, more like the sharpness of someone who had too much on their mind and not enough patience to explain it all. His movements were hurried, shoving items into a chest without care, the clinking of metal and the rustle of cloth breaking the fragile silence of the camp.

"We ain’t got time for your temper right now. Pack what you need and be quick about it. I need to tear down the tent too. Hurry!."

Your mouth opened to retort, but the tension in his jaw and the way his hand hovered near the gun at his hip made you think better of it. He wasn’t in the mood for arguments. With a huff, you threw the blanket off and started gathering your belongings, half of which you hadn't unpacked anyway.

"Where...are we even going?..."

"Somewhere safer. Don’t matter where right now, just that we ain’t here when the sun’s up. Wear something warm too."

"Wh-where's Suki-?"

"She'll be-" He left mid-sentence as Dutch called him over.

Typical.

God, how far could this new place be? What if you were this close to being found by your parents, and now you were moving further away again?

First things first, you need to find your pet. And with that, you dashed out of the tent, eyes scanning the camp until you spotted her, comfortably perched on Hosea’s lap as he cooed at her.

"Oh… here, (Y/N). Hope you didn’t mind-"

“It’s fine.” You were already turning to leave when Hosea stood up from the crate. “Where are we going?” you asked, catching him just before he walked away.

“Just another, safer place. Up the hill.”

“Why, though?”

He shrugged, his gaze distant. "Dutch wanted a change of scenery."

Oh really?

You couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just another move. It felt like an escape, an escape from something you weren’t allowed to know.

"Are you serious?"

“You know him,” Hosea added, his voice tinged with an understanding sympathy before he walked off, leaving you standing there, feeling more annoyed than ever.

Geez… Dutch’s mood, huh? Pfft. And they say men aren’t emotional.

"(Y/N)!".

What the fuck now?

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath, "God, help us, Suki. You alright girl, hm?" The last thing you wanted was to deal with him again. You didn’t rush your steps as you turned back toward the tent, taking your sweet time, not bothering to acknowledge his call just yet.

The thought of sharing a horse with Arthur made your stomach twist. The last thing you needed was him too close, breathing down your neck, holding you like his personal doll, a constant reminder of the mess you were stuck in. But you had no choice.

Grumbling to yourself, you finally made your way back to the tent, knowing full well what he’d want next. Anything to keep you under his watchful eye.

Great. Just great.

❀˖°

Taking you back home or at least letting you meet your parents was something you’d stopped asking about after the second day. But today, after settling into the new camp, Silverpine Crossing, situated on rather a height, not too far from the previous camp though. As if the weather wasn't cold enough and waking to the stillness of yet another isolated morning, you felt the misery again. He was being sent on a supply run, and you wanted out. Not just to interact, fuck that--but rather just to see a fresh face, smell something different, anything that wasn’t this suffocating place or these people.

The idea was barely out of your mouth when he shoved you back into the tent.

"Wha-"

“You can’t understand a word, huh?"

"B-but it's not like I am going alone-"

" I said fuckin’ no. So sit your ass down!”

“F-or like what? Forever?!”

His hand shot out, grabbing your bicep with bruising force, his grip making your breath hitch. "Until you learn to be fuckin' grateful and nice. Now quit whinin'. And when I come back… see that pile over there?"

Your gaze darted to the heap of clothes by the cot, his clothes.

“They better be fuckin’ washed. Or you’ll make me do something you’ll regret yourself. Ya hear me?”

"Excuse--me?--- laundry?! I don't know shi-"

"THEN FUCKING LEARN!" Each word was punctuated by the bruising squeeze of your arm and making your fear heightened. With a warning shove and a glare that seared through you, he turned and stalked off without another word.

You could hear him calling for Susan...no, please, no.

Learn , my foot. Asshole.

❀˖°

You huffed as you scrubbed one of the shirts against the bucket. The water was icy against your hands, but the repetitive motion of washing was at least keeping you occupied, even if it felt degrading.

"Never thought I’d see the day," came a sly voice behind you.

You glanced up to find Karen standing nearby, hands on her hips, her signature smirk plastered across her face. She looked amused, tilting her head as she studied you.

"Look at you, being all in...the picket fence character," she teased, crouching down beside you. "Arthur got you washing his drawers now, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes, irritated by her tone, but you didn’t stop scrubbing. "How about you shut it and walk away."

Karen chuckled, leaning back on her hands. "Don’t take it so personally. Men like him? They expect it. Don’t mean you gotta roll over, though."

You frowned, her words stinging even though they weren’t entirely wrong. "First of all , nobody here is rolling over and secondly what do you want?"

"Easy, now. Take no wound to the pride. Just thought I’d keep you company. Ain’t like anyone else’ll do it," she replied with a shrug. "Besides, I figured you could use a little girl talk."

You scoffed softly, tossing the shirt into the rinsing bucket. "Girl talk? Right. And what would that be about?"

"Oh, I don’t know," she said, pretending to ponder, "maybe 'bout you ending up here in the first place.."

"Isn't it clear how I ended up in rags from riches huh?"

"No... I mean... why? Because none of us-well, I speak for the girls here--never thought he’d actually go this far. Never thought Mr. Morgan'd do it," she said cautiously, her hands busily sorting through the clothes.

You let out a hollow laugh. "Well, he isn’t a saint, and he’s made that crystal clear. No less than the devil. No, he is the devil."

A painful silence hung between you, the kind that seemed to stretch endlessly, until finally, she broke it again, her voice softer this time.

"But... he wasn’t like this before And by that, I mean... he could have done this before too. If he’d wanted to."

Her jumbled, hesitant words made your neck snap toward her, your curiosity getting the better of your anger. "Hm?"

"There was this lady. Rich, too. City girl. Like you, almost. They had a thing, a good one. They were even engaged. Mutual love, that’s what I mean. But then..." She hesitated, glancing up briefly before looking back down at the fabric in her hands. "Things didn’t work out. Her father, her name’s Mary Linton, by the way--yeah, so, her father married her off to some bloke. Happened...like three years ago."

Your mind reeled, and every word hit you like a blow.

What

The....

"Y-you-you're telling me that-" You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions threatening to choke you. "There was a woman he could’ve done this with, but he didn’t, and instead-"

"I-I mean-yes-but she got married and he probably found later...this is just a hunch though. But-"

"He took what? His anger, or I don’t fucking know--revenge out on me?!" You were on your feet now, your whole body ablaze with rage and confusion. "H-how-why?! God, why?!"

Before she could say another word, a voice cut through the rising tension, smooth and calm yet dripping with authority.

"Mrs. Morgan, a word."

You froze, your head snapping toward Dutch’s tent, where he sat, as composed as ever, watching the scene unfold like he was enjoying just another sunny afternoon.

Oh, this fucker.

Your body stormed towards Dutch's tent while he sat there as calm as ever, thumbing through a book like he hadn’t just summoned you out of thin air.

"Come in, come in, missy," he said smoothly, gesturing to the space before him. "I wanted to-" But you couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you happy? Hm? All of you? How could… you do this to me?" Your voice cracked as sobs wracked your chest, but you didn’t care. The words poured out like complaints of a child. And at this moment you were a child again. Lost and vulnerable once again. "I can’t believe there was a time…" You gasped for breath. "A tim-e when I held your hand and… came here, blindly following you. And for years… I-I was grateful to you… and this is what I get f-for that?"

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond you. For a fleeting moment, there was something in his expression a hint of reflection, perhaps regret?

Oh you were mistaken if you took that for guilt.

"Sometimes," he finally said, "good things happen… for the worse too, girl. A curse in disguise." He tilted his head slightly, his tone hardening. "Believe it or not… accept it or not, I wasn’t the one who webbed this. It was in your fate. Because if you’re going to play the blame game," he continued, his voice cutting deeper, "then there are plenty of others. Your own parents, for leaving you alone in the care of greedy relatives. Your relatives, for treating you like garbage. And then yourself, for giving a thirsty dog water and not expecting it to follow you home."

"So being nice is a crime? Being a friend is-"

"Man and woman, friends?" He barked a chuckle sharply. "You young generation sure have your own beliefs. But that is a hoax, girl. A trap. And you fell for it." He leaned forward, jabbing a finger in your direction, his eyes hard.

"What about her then?! That Mary girl! They weren't friends, they were engaged! He should’ve done this with HER! Why me?! Why did you all ruin my life?! Why didn't you stop him!?" The words tore from your throat like a wounded animal. Your fists lashed out, colliding with his chest and face over and over, your anger and desperation boiling over. He stood firm, his jaw tightening as he absorbed every blow.

"Dutch! Hey- what is she doing?!-" Molly sauntered hurriedly to the entrance.

"Miss O' Shea, give us a moment."

Without a word, he reached over and shut the tent flaps, sealing you both inside and ignoring your latest panic-fueled outburst.

"Listen here," he growled, pushing you away. "I don’t need more drama in this camp from you. I understand this may not be ideal for you, but life ain’t always ideal, missy, is it? So stop this at once! I won’t have this nonsense. Him, being the hard worker he is, loyal to the bone, and you," his eyes narrowed, "his spouse, acting like a damn lunatic. He made his own decision and you need to accept it!."

You froze for a second, seething, your body trembling with fury. Then you straightened, glaring at him with all the venom you could muster. "You people...made me a lunatic!! And I'll act however the hell I want, Watch me. And I’ll tell you this-I won’t ever forgive any of you for this. EVER! Ya'll think you are on top of the world? You are...going to one day fall deep in the same pit you all are digging. And it's Ms. (L/N) for next time."

❀˖°

Arthur held up the tattered remains of his shirts under the firelight, his fingers brushing over the jagged holes that mocked him. His scowl deepened as he turned them in his hands. Karen stood a few paces away, putting on her best performance.

"I swear I saw her hang them up, and these shirts were pristine, Mr. Morgan. I am tellin' you, it’s gotta be one of the boys pulling a prank. Y'know how John gets when he's-"

Well, none of it was true of course. She was the one who washed them and hung them which you later slashed. Karen regretted telling you everything altogether.

Arthur’s glare cut her off. "Do I look stupid to you, Ms. Jones?" and without another word, he stormed toward his tent, the worn fabric of the shirts clenched in his fist.

Can’t have one damn evening in peace.

His jaw tightened as he moved, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He wanted things to be normal, to make them better for you, but you made it so damn hard. So difficult to keep himself in check.

He yanked the flap of the tent aside and stepped in. "What is this, huh?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness as he displayed the ruined shirts in front of you one by one. You flinched as they hit the floor in a crumpled heap. His anger was evident in every movement, in the way his chest heaved and his eyes burned into you.

"I asked you somethin'-" His hand shot out, grabbing your chin to force your gaze upward. "Fuck--look at me!"

Your eyes locked on his. For a fleeting moment, you saw it, his anger faltered, his grip loosening as his eyes softened, regret flickering in their depths like an ember struggling against the cold.

"Why, Arthur?" Your voice wavered, but you steadied it with a bitter edge. "That’s what you wanna know? Hm? Well, I do too." You patted the cot beside you, your tone turning mockingly bright. "Have a seat, here. Let’s figure it out together."

He didn’t move, his jaw tightening again as he studied your faux-bubbly smile and his frown deepened as he watched you rise from the cot, the firelight catching the tension in your movements.

"What? Don’t wanna sit with your wife? Oh... hm. I understand. Must be hard, huh? Coming back here, to this-" You gestured vaguely around the tent and his shirts, your tone teetering between anger and despair. "And maybe--just maybe--you dream of seeing someone else. But what did you get? Or rather, what did you take? A replacement for your broken heart?"

His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

"And this?" Your voice was sharper now as you raised your hand, the ring catching the dim light. His earlier warnings still echoed in your mind, but you ignored it. Recklessness burned through you as you slid the ring off your finger, holding it up like it was a mockery of everything between you.

"Is it hers too? Damn...you never told me about your tragedy filled love-story before. Why not?" The anger you felt was just. You wished she was in front of you so could beat her to a pulp and ask her 'Why didn't her ass marry him!?' because now you are the one paying the price for these discounts Romeo and Juliet.

Arthur’s nostrils flared as he stepped closer, his presence looming, his voice low and cold. "Don’t."

But you didn’t stop. You held the ring out, your own anger a match to his. "What, Arthur? Don’t what? Don’t ask if this belonged to the woman you couldn’t have? The one you let go? Who I guess didn't even agree to running away with you?" Your chuckle was biting, venomous and you wanted to hurt him as much as you could. "Or more like you were too late to snatch? Guess, someone else beat you to it."

"You don’t know what you’re sayin! It's yours! Put it back right now, I swear to God-"

"Why did you destroy my life!? ANSWER ME! WHY DIDN'T YOU DO THIS WITH HER!" Your hands collided with his chest with full force but he didn't budge.

"BECAUSE I JUST DID! I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! Fucking accept it! How fucking--dense can you be! You are not the first woman it's ever happened to so stop acting like this!"

"But...does it make it right? I won't be the last too...I jus' know there must be some girl right now...out there...relaxing, hell, just existing, and next thing you know....a man, like you comes and...plucks her away-"

"Did you forget what I confessed to you?! That meant nothing to you?!"

"And I rejected YOU! You still have time. Go on, GO! Kill her husband and bring her here and let ME GO!"

"You--you think this is a joke?"

You wiped your tears putting on a firm mask again. "You made my life a joke, Arthur..... made me...a joke."

He, however, wasn't in the mood to hear all this again.

"Put. It. On. Now." He stepped closer as his fists clenched. He didn't even know that he possessed this much restraint until now. He grabbed your hands but you struggled.

"Put Omar's on too, make it even then at least-"

Before you could fully register the shift in his expression, he twisted your arm, forcing you off balance and sending you crashing to the ground with a thud. You barely had time to breathe before he was towering over you, his rage evident in the wild flickers of his eyes.

"Repeat that."

"I loved my life too! You h-ad no right! No right!--I love him too! He didn't deserve all that too! NOBODY DID!"

Love him too?

A pained scream left your lips as he slammed his boot on your bare hand pressing on it with brutal force.

And again.

"Done acting like a wench?!" With that, he grabbed the numb hand and forced on the ring again. " This ring ain’t comin’ off your finger, not while I’m alive."

You struggled to catch your breath, the pain too much to even register and tears clouding your vision. But before you could even react, Arthur’s hand was on your hair, dragging you up with such force that your head spun. His movements were quick, and cold, and there was no mercy in them. You gasped, trying to free yourself.

"Arthur-" you cried, but your voice was swallowed by his fury.

"Shut the hell up!" he roared, his voice vibrating with anger as he dragged you across the dirt. You tried to dig your heels in, desperate to break free, but it was no use. His strength was overwhelming.

With one final yank, he threw you into the back of the wagon, your body hitting the wooden floor with a painful thud. Before you could sit up or gather yourself, he slammed the door shut, trapping you inside in the pitch-dark, cold space.

"Fuckin' stay there," he growled from the outside, his voice harsh and final. "I won’t have you disrespecting me, not like this. You’ll stay in there until you get your damn head on straight. This is the only language you seem to understand."

"Mr. Morgan--stop-please-let (Y/N) out!" Grimshaw's voice cut through from beside him.

Arthur's head snapped toward Grimshaw, his expression hard, his eyes like ice. "She will stay here until I say so. And if anyone dares to come near her or try to help, they’ll answer to me. And tell the girls to fuckin' stay away from her. They don’t talk any nonsense to her. Got it?"

With a final, warning smack against the wooden door, Arthur turned on his heel and walked off, his boots thudding against the ground as he headed back toward his tent.

Susan turned toward Hosea who met her gaze, his worry evident as he nodded, then slowly made his way to Arthur's tent. Inside, Arthur was calmly sitting on the cot, casually removing his boots as though nothing had happened.

"Arthur, enough," Hosea's voice broke the stillness. "I won’t sit here and watch you treat a woman like this, the woman you brought here yourself. Isn't this inevitable? Were you expecting her to bend to your will?"

"SHE DAMN SHOULD! I really am trying. But it ain’t workin', and I’ve got no choice now. So don’t meddle."

"You’re only pushing her further away, Arthur."

"Gentleness won’t always solve the problem."

"But it sure as hell won’t make it worse. You’re handling this all wrong."

Arthur stood up, a hint of defensiveness in his posture. "She’s the problem, Hosea. She doesn’t fuckin' understand-"

"No," Hosea interrupted, his tone heavy with conviction. "She ain’t a problem. She’s someone’s daughter, and now, unfortunately, your wife. Even if you've done what you’ve done, roughness will only shatter what little is left of her. A hammer may break... the glass, but it does nothing for the vase."

❀˖°

The enforcer's thoughts still sharp with anger, but the sharpness had dulled just enough for him to notice the start of morning chill in the air. His hands gripped the edge of the cot as his mind lingered on the coldness between him and you, the things he’d said and done in a moment of blind rage.

He didn’t want to be this man. Not again. Not with you.

But he couldn't control it.

His boots scraped against the dirt as he made his way toward the wagon. The camp was still quiet, the morning still young, and as he approached the wagon, he saw her, Suki, curled up down by the wheel, her small body trying to make the best of the cold rough ground. The sight of her, peaceful and innocent, did something to his chest. If she could curse...she would be doing it too for what he has done to you until now.

His hand moved to scratch behind her ears, the motion automatic, a familiar comfort. But as soon as his fingers made contact, Suki stirred, her small body tensing as her golden eyes flicked open. With a flick of her tail, she stood and slinked away, padding off a few feet before halting, glancing back at him with a clear sense of judgment.

Arthur's heart sank as he watched her move, the way she embodied a certain grace, withdrawn, distant, unwilling to let him in after what had passed between you two. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he felt his own anger twist back to the forefront. The cat had always been your companion, your comfort. And now she was moving away from him, just like you had.

It hit him harder than he cared to admit. She wasn’t just a cat to him right now, she was you.

If he's soft...you hate him, when he's mad...you hate him.

You.... hate him.

"The woman you brought here yourself. Isn't this inevitable? Were you expecting her to bend to your will?" Damn man is always right.

He slowly and with a deep sigh undid the chain on the lock and then...he saw you curled up inside, your back to him. The vulnerable position made his heart ache once again.

“(Y/N),” he murmured, almost a plea in the softness of his voice. He couldn’t force you to face him, couldn’t drag you into another fight. He knew you needed space.

You didn’t respond, didn’t even stir at the sound of his soft murmur.

With a sigh, Arthur stepped back out of the wagon, leaving the door open. He made his way over back to the tent with his thoughts swirling in a confusing mess. He didn’t know what else to do.

He grabbed the thick, warm blanket and returned to the wagon, crouching to get halfway inside. He carefully draped it over your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he settled it around you. He couldn't see your eyes as it was shadowed with your arms and hair. He wanted to say something, anything that might make you feel seen, understood. But the words got stuck in his throat, due to guilt.

"I won’t drag you back in," he whispered softly, not wanting to force anything on you. "But... it’s cold out here...."

He took a step back and let the blanket rest gently on you, pulling the door flaps of the wagon back slightly to let in the morning light and some fresh air. All he could do was wait, try to be patient...

Arthur didn’t leave, though. He wasn’t going to walk away. He pulled a nearby chair over, sitting down just outside the door of the wagon lighting up a smoke.

Patient.

Patient...

It was hours later when he watched from a distance as Susan approached the wagon. Moments later, Arthur saw you emerge, wrapped tightly in the same blanket he’d left draped over you. You looked... weak, exhausted, and withdrawn, leaning heavily on Susan as she guided you down. His jaw tightened when he saw how carefully Susan covered you, pulling the edges of the blanket tighter as if shielding you from everything, including him.

His heart twisted as he watched her take you to his tent, her voice low and comforting, her hand steady on your shoulder. He stayed where he was, his gaze fixed on the two of you until you disappeared inside. His chest ached with a mix of guilt, knowing that it wasn’t his arms guiding you, wasn’t his words offering comfort. Instead, he was the one that hurt you. He wanted to run inside and apologize...but where would he even start. His apology would be nothing but a joke...a painful reminder...to you.

"Arthur."

"Dutch…"

The older man leaned in, his voice calm but firm. "What you need is a bit of distance. Cool your head, boy. I’ve got a few jobs to need doin’, away from camp. Might take you a few days."

Arthur hesitated, a protest forming on his lips. "Yeah, but-"

"Her hand might be broken..." Susan’s voice cut through the moment, matter-of-fact, her sharp eyes fixed on Dutch as if Arthur wasn’t even there.

Shit.

Guilt once again rose like a wave, crashing hard against his already frayed nerves. He took a step forward, instinct driving him, but Dutch’s hand shot out, firm on his shoulder.

"No. You go. Charles will take her and Grimshaw. If it’s not too serious, Hosea can just treat it here."

Arthur tensed, his jaw tightening at the mention of Charles. The thought of you going anywhere with him, trusting anyone else. “I....don’t like that idea,” he muttered, his voice rough.

Dutch arched a brow, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Oh, I know you don’t. But it ain’t your call now, is it? Don't worry though, we are here, aren't we? Ms. Grimshaw, tell Hosea to check her."

Arthur stood there, torn between guilt, frustration, and something he couldn’t quite name. Dutch gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

"Come, I will give you the list of tasks."

After receiving that, he strode to the camp's edge finding Bill lounging idly near the horses. "Bill," he barked, his tone short. "Keep watch over the camp while I’m gone. I’ll be back in four to five days, maybe less. And uh...her too. No one bothers her, got it?"

"...Got it."

Arthur nodded once, curtly, before turning to his horse. With a final glance at the place he should’ve been, where he should’ve stayed, Arthur swung onto his horse.

He didn’t look back as he rode out of camp. He couldn’t.

★ Next

─AN: To be added or removed, you can always comment. Interactions are always appreciated.

★ tag list: : @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @raeraypoca @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @meheheasasa

[hearts4mica]

may i request .. platonic yandere batfam with superhero!reader !!

The reader is a superhero, one who stands apart from the Batfamily, having only allies and friends, never tied to their legacy. Initially, they were just another caped crusader with a ego—nothing too unusual in the world of heroes. However, as time went on, that ego grew, taking root and warping their perception of themselves. Their intellect, physical prowess, vast network of connections, and undeniably striking appearance became the foundation of their belief that they were untouchable. They began to see themselves as the pinnacle of strength and brilliance, convinced that the world was theirs for the taking.

And whenever anyone dared to mention it, they'd brush it off with a sharp retort, "Shut up. Perhaps you're an enemy too?" The words were always laced with disdain, a reminder of their growing arrogance and refusal to tolerate anything less than admiration.

Eventually, their ego consumed them entirely. What started as pride in their abilities morphed into an insatiable hunger for power and control. No longer content with being a hero, they began to view anyone who challenged them—whether through words or actions—as a threat. In their mind, they were above reproach, untouchable. And so, they embraced the darkness, eliminating anyone who stood in their way. Allies became enemies, and the once-heroic figure turned into a ruthless villain, leaving a trail of destruction behind them as they sought to bend the world to their will.

“Hey, the next thing I know—you’ve become the supervillain, haven’t you?”

So what if i’m crazy? The best people are.

platonic! yandere! batfam x superhero? reader

Masterlist!

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I’m that first-person they talk about in all the books.

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You always were a zero on the side to everyone you knew.

At school an outcast

At home ignored.

You were a Wayne. But you always felt like a shadow no one cared about you.

You always felt like your family would be happier without you. At night they dissapeared as if they didn’t exist.

But who cares it’s not like you were home at night. Maybe they go out to dinner

At night everything was different. You were a hero free, like a bird.

…

Birds. You hated birds.

And even more robins. Oh Robin how you despised that ‘hero’. He thought he was better than everyone else because he is Batman’s sidekick.

But who cares? definitely not you, you left Young Justice cause it was full of try hard idiotic teens whose parents couldn’t care less about them, who tried to be heroes and someday be part of the Justice League. Who was also full of adults playing dress up.

You stayed ‘friends’ with them tho. No. Not friends you don’t need friends you never did, just ‘allies’ people you wouldn’t care less if they died. People you could use as a stepstool for you own benefit.

You were born to be a hero. Gotham’s only hero

If only those birds didn’t exist.

Isn’t that how hero’s work? Using villians as their stepstool for their own pleasure of being loved and cared for by the people?

It’s not wrong.

At night it was always the same routine.

Go out, beat up some villians, go home

You were tired of the same routine. Over and over again.

You never got the recognition you deserved!

It was so unfair why did they get all the fame, recognition, love.

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Now you were ‘teaming’ up with some members of the Young Justice.

They were trying to take down a hero and asked for your help. Ha! Of course they would! You were the strongest, bravest, smartest hero of the whole world. And since its the truth you can’t be called “egocentrical”!

They were setting up a plan to bring down the villian terrorizing Gotham and while they weren’t watching you just left and jumped into action. After all you already had all the info you needed.

You just had to defeat him and all the attention would go to you! You’ll be loved by everyone!

But something went wrong when you were doing the plan

Someone sabotaged you?!

A bomb. A fucking bomb exploded making the whole building explode!

You barely survided that stupid explosion.

Who would dare to do tha-…

Them. The heroes. They did it!

They- they sabotaged my plan- no. They set up a trap for you! They tried to kill you!

They tried? And i didn’t die…? Why?

You look back to the ashes of what once was a building

Oh. Oh! You were inmortal! That was the only explainable reason! You.

You were a God

You were the God of the new world. That must be why you never felt part of the family! Because you were above them!

They were gonna pay for what they did.

And that’s how everything started.

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‘If i could kill you i would but it’s frowned upon in all 50 states.’

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You believed with your whole soul you were a God.

So every night non-stop you would be here and there.

A robbery at the bank with people with guns? It didn’t matter you were inmortal.

You even took the freedom to interrupt other heroes plans.

At one point a rando whose name you couldn’t care less to remember tried to confront you.

Saying that “oh you ruined my plan! Blah blah blah! Like i didn’t ruin your plan.”

It was not your fault that the villian escaped! It was their fault for crafting such a ridiculous plan!

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You started treating every hero that dared to look at you wrongly as an enemy

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Oh this small hero from a small town that definitely needed heroes looked at you slightly wrong for a second?

He was a spy for the villians! He was never seen again.

Even normal people

A small vlogger who had never done you wrong posted a rumour about you supposedly having something to do with the dissapearence about that exactly fellow hero? Their channel gone. They never posted again.

They tried to ruin your reputation! You couldn’t let them do that.

That friendly hero that was always willing to save the day? Gone too. They were trying to replace you!

It seemed that the whole world was against you.

You had to eliminate the scum and just leave the one’s that respect you.

The God of the new world.

A world were only you would rule.

A perfect world.

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Now only mayhem and blood were on the streets.

Just chaos

Just perfect.

Everything was perfect.

Murder everywhere

Where is the justice?

Dead

They didn’t deserve to live after all. No one did

Just your loyal followers.

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“After all the only villian left here was you.”

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Thank you for reading!

I had lots of fun writing this.

Feel free to leave a request if you’d like.

Comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated!

My Masterlist

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